by Jana Oliver
Visibly startled, the sword quavered in his hand for an instant. Then he rejoined her on the platform, his breathing deep from the exercise.
She waited until he got settled and his breathing returned to normal.
“When I return, will you teach me that?” she asked.
Something flared behind those dark eyes. “When you return, I’ll teach you anything you desire,” he answered softly.
~••~••~••~
The Government’s Complex was as utilitarian as she’d imagined, a fact that only darkened her mood. The knot in her stomach felt like it was studded with a million sharp needles. She was about to do something either incredibly brave, or immensely stupid. Ralph had already weighed in that it was the latter. Their farewell this morning had left both of them in tears.
She’d hoped the farewell with Morrisey would go better, but that looked to be in question. When he didn’t jump back into the private grav car after a quick goodbye, her nerves flared up. She couldn’t handle another scene like she’d had with Ralph.
Klein was waiting for them, along with a young man. She stared at him, but the name wouldn’t fall into place.
“Johns Hopkins,” he said. “I delivered your letter to Montrose.”
Cynda worked on that for a few seconds. An image appeared: Hopkins lying on a bed, each breath a struggle.
“You owe me a couple beers,” he added, smiling. “And Copeland’s head.”
Copeland. TPB’s hired gun. The last time she’d seen him was right after he shot Defoe. The night my brain was blanked.
Klein cut in. “Give her the gun.” Hopkins produced one from his pocket. “It’s a Webley, period authentic. Use it if needed, though I’d prefer that bastard alive.”
Considering Copeland’s history, it was a sensible precaution. Gingerly, she took the firearm and put it into a pocket. She couldn’t miss the frown forming on Morrisey’s face.
“She’s not your assassin, Klein,” he growled.
“Didn’t think she was.” Klein pointed, “Chronsole room is that way. Before you leave, I need to talk to you, Morrisey.”
Her boss nodded, the frown still in place. Cynda stuck out her hand, hoping he’d make this as painless as possible.
“No, I’ll see you off,” he said firmly.
Her heart sank. Please don’t make this harder than it is.
As Hopkins escorted them to the chronsole room, Morrisey offered a steady string of advice. That told her how worried he was.
“Find Harter,” he said. “He’s in London.”
“Any idea where?”
“He hasn’t communicated with us. You know whom you can trust in that time period. Rely on them. Do not do this on your own.”
“Yes, boss.”
The frown deepened. “Keep in contact on a regular basis,” he instructed, handing her something. It was a silver pendant. “If you press your thumb against the photo and your index finger on the back, it will allow you access to the database. I loaded what I thought you might need. It includes an image gallery to help refresh your memory, and you can add new data files.”
“It took a lot of time for you to do this for me.”
He shrugged, much like a young boy caught giving a girl a lollipop.
The chronsole room and the time pod were as dull as the rest of the building. The chron-op was a woman with pale hair and paler skin. She gave Cynda a bored look and turned back to the chronsole. Ralph wouldn’t like this scene. Luckily, she’d talked him into missing this.
Cynda paused before the time pod door. This was harder than she’d expected. She had grown accustomed to Morrisey’s stable presence, his wisdom, and his protection. She would truly miss him, as much as she’d miss Ralph. More. It felt odd to admit that.
“Miss Lassiter?” Morrisey prompted.
“Sorry. Anything else?”
He looked over at Hopkins. “I would like to do this transfer.”
“Why not? You invented the technology,” the Guv’s Rover replied.
The chron-op didn’t look pleased. They were a territorial bunch.
“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to do this alone,” Morrisey added.
Hopkins raised an eyebrow at the unusual request. “Okay. Time for coffee,” he said. The chron-op gave them all a disgruntled frown, but followed the Guv agent out the door.
Morrisey waited for the door to close. With a trembling hand he gently touched her cheek. A delicate kiss brushed her lips. It felt warm, inviting. When he drew back, Cynda stared at him, too stunned to reply.
He caressed her cheek again, a sheen in his eyes. “Keep yourself safe, Jacynda. We have unfinished business, you and I.”
This was agony. If she failed in 1888, she’d never see this extraordinary man again.
When she didn’t speak, he reluctantly drew away. All business now, he took his place behind the chronsole. “I will make this as comfortable as possible, since you’re a bit rusty.”
She heard a chuckle from her shoulder. “That’s an understatement.”
Zip it, spider, or you’ll have to find your own way there.
Cynda knelt in the time pod, then raised her head, though that wasn’t standard protocol. The door closed with a final clunk that made her bones quake.
She saw his lips moving, though she could no longer hear what he was saying. A prayer, perhaps?
On impulse, she blew him a kiss. A tormented smile returned.
He mouthed something, then triggered the technology that would send her back one hundred and seventy years.
The fourth dimension had never felt so lonely.
Part Two
Nothing is easier than to
denounce the evildoer;
nothing is more difficult than
to understand him.”
- Fyodor Dostoevsky
Chapter 1
Sunday, 4 November, 1888
Hyde Park, London
Satyr exited the hansom at the northeast corner of Hyde Park near Marble Arch, where a crowd encircled someone spouting the wonders of socialism. He straightened his coat and tie, taking time to gather his bearings.
Though his position as Lead Assassin made him answerable only to the Ascendant, Satyr was mindful that the Twenty also wielded considerable power amongst the Transitives. Comprised of various members of the community, apportioned by rank or commercial affiliation, the Twenty were responsible for suggesting policy to their leader. Though the Ascendant was the pinnacle of their kind, it was the Twenty who decided when an Ascendant’s time had passed. Then the Lead Assassin came into play, dispatching the old so that they could vote in the new.
An eminently practical system of checks and balances.
The last time an Ascendant had been replaced was at the beginning of the year; Satyr could still hear the pitiful whimpers of his previous master as he prepared to deliver the final blow. Such cowardice made the job distasteful.
Unfortunately, the current Ascendant will not depart so easily.
According to tradition, the Twenty had a representative from each of the major guilds, a few lords, a judge or two, and a single female. Satyr knew the identities of some of them, though he wasn’t supposed to know any of them except for the Intermediary, who acted as a liaison between the Ascendant and the group.
The single female on the Twenty was a holdover from the late 1700s, when someone had installed his mistress in the group as a lark. It was joked that naming a woman to the Twenty was much like Caligula making his horse a Roman senator. That tradition continued to the present day, though the woman was no longer some lowly mistress. She was, in fact, the first female Intermediary and the most sought-after courtesan in London.
Before long, Satyr saw her carriage arrive. Her transport wasn’t ostentatious, like some. Adelaide Winston alighted with a grace that made the others of her sex appear like draft ponies. With a few adjustments of her burgundy parasol, she set off on the path inside the park. Men made way for her, many touching their caps i
n respect. Women, however, delivered veiled glares; they understood that her promenade was as much advertisement as exercise.
Satyr eventually overtook her, offering his arm. She took it.
“Good day, Mr. S.,” she acknowledged, her voice low and rich. It was plain why men paid a ransom to be with this woman. Even if you did not enjoy the carnal aspects of her nature, listening to her was well worth the price.
“Good day, Madam Winston. I trust you are well?”
“In health, I am very sound. In mind, however, I am troubled. But first, tell me why you wished to meet on such short notice.”
He waited until they had passed another couple and had more privacy. “The Ascendant is beginning to cross the line, madam.”
“So soon?” she asked. “In what way is he being inappropriate?”
Satyr related the Lassiter incident and the employment of a junior assassin without his knowledge.
Adelaide gave a slight nod to a distinguished gentleman who passed in the other direction. He returned a faint smile of remembrance. “Do I note a fit of pique?” she gently chided.
“Yes,” Satyr admitted, knowing she valued honesty. “Nevertheless, he has been acting oddly as of late.”
“In what way?”
“He has not been forthcoming about his delays with regard to the plan.”
Her brow furrowed. “Has he delivered the…commercial items he has recently obtained?”
The explosives. “No, he has not. When I ask for particulars, I am ignored.”
Madam Winston nodded knowingly. “When we press him, he dodges our questions as well. Is it true that the materials are no longer in one location, but scattered about the East End?”
Satyr nodded gravely. “Our leader says it is to avoid any inadvertent accident or discovery by the authorities, now that the Fenians are involved.”
Adelaide looked startled. “Why include them? They have no part in this. They only raise the stakes as far as the police are concerned.”
“The anarchist in question was not given a choice, madam.” As they approached the turn south toward the Serpentine, Satyr told her of Desmond Flaherty and the stranglehold their leader held on the man. His companion’s face didn’t change, but he could sense tension rising in her body.
“How old is this girl?” she asked.
“Seventeen, I believe.”
“Is she unharmed?”
“At present.”
They walked on for a time, Satyr scanning the area for potential threats. Though he saw none, he did not relax. Why was he feeling so exposed? Certainly the Ascendant would not attempt to harm him or the Intermediary.
Adelaide Winston’s troubled eyes sought his. “I shall present your news to the Twenty. We will demand answers. At no time should he be acting without our approval. Though I have no love of anarchists, this kidnapping is barbarous.”
Satyr nodded. “I spoke out against it, but it did no good. I suspect that in the coming days he will order the girl’s death, as well as that of her father, to ensure they are no witnesses.”
“You are required to follow the Ascendant’s orders,” she replied softly. “However, I see no benefit to be derived from another murdered girl. Flaherty’s demise will bring the wrath of the Irish upon us. Even if they do not avenge him in the short term, they are known to have very long memories.”
“I will see what can be done within the confines of my duty.”
“That would be best.” They angled around the path to return the way they’d come. “This Miss Lassiter, did she truly present a threat?”
An excellent question. “I’m not sure. She was investigating the death of her lover, which as far as I can tell has no bearing on our work. Yet the Ascendant ordered her demise nearly the moment she arrived in London.”
The courtesan was quiet for a time. “Have you seen Mr. Livingston recently?” she asked, her voice harboring a different tone.
“No.”
“Please locate him if you can. I have not seen him in some time, and that is unusual.”
“I may not be the best choice for that, madam. I received an order just this morning to remove Mr. Livingston at the soonest opportunity.”
Adelaide Winston’s eyes widened. “Why would the Ascendant do such a thing? Malachi…” There was a slight tint to her cheeks. “Mr. Livingston is a valued member of our community.”
Apparently, there was more between the courtesan and her customer than just commerce. “I am sorry, madam, but no reason was given for the order.” A fact that had puzzled him as well. The Ascendant’s decision regarding Livingston felt arbitrary.
“This is unacceptable,” she said sternly. “We cannot have the Ascendant just dispatching people at whim. Unless…could it be that our leader fears that Mr. Livingston might become his replacement?”
“It is possible,” Satyr conceded. “Livingston would be an excellent choice.”
“Then I would suggest you take your time carrying out that order, sir.”
“I am willing to do that, madam; however, there is no guarantee he might not send another in my stead.”
She grew pensive. “I wonder how long it will be before the rest of us are considered a threat, Mr. S.?”
~••~••~••~
Ralph might rail against her about taking unnecessary risks, but Cynda knew this was where she belonged. Perhaps it was the hurly-burly of the city that attracted her, the vitality of everyday life. Victorian London was truly a free-for-all. Voices competed with the sound of carriage wheels and the low rumble of wagons moving slowly down the street. A load of hops rolled by as young boys scampered around the street, calling out to each other. A small knot of women traded gossip in a doorway, looking up when someone passed. All of this was muted in 2058, held in check by the rules regarding noise abatement, how long you could loiter on the street, sit on a bench in a park.
Cynda inhaled deeply, which she instantly deemed a mistake. After a prolonged coughing fit, she shook her head at her own stupidity.
Never were that smart, were you Lassiter? The grin came instantly. She had a name, and it had stuck. Though her mind still resembled a moth-eaten sweater, some things were clearer than they’d been before the Nothing Time. She sensed other people’s emotions more strongly than before. Danger registered more clearly, almost like a scent in the air. There had been benefits to misplacing her memories. Minimal time lag, for one.
Cynda shifted her Gladstone to the left hand to keep her right free. The pistol was in that pocket, though she didn’t expect to use it. Rovers weren’t gun sorts of people, though they’d been trained in how to fire some of the older varieties. Most preferred a Neural-blocker. A lot less messy, but frowned upon by TPB.
Her first inkling that she’d lost some of her Victorian savvy was when she went to cross a street and forgot to look in all directions. A hansom rounded the corner at a brisk clip and she had to lurch back onto the kerb to keep from being flattened. Then she felt a tug on her skirt, followed by the rapid patter of retreating feet. One of the toolers had just nailed her. She dug into the pocket and found a few coins missing. Fortunately, the bulk of her money was in the Gladstone. Her interface, buried in the secret pocket, remained safe.
“Money in boots, except for a few coins,” Mr. Spider advised from her shoulder. “That’s what you used to do.”
“That I had forgotten,” she grumbled. She’d given a lot of thought and preparation to this journey, but the “taken for granted” parts of her job weren’t mentioned in the run reports. Those would give her the most trouble. All the street savvy she’d relied on in the past was either missing or forgotten, making the danger seem much more tangible than before. She would just have to trust her instincts. She knew who her friends were here. She knew some of her enemies. In the middle was a lot of gray.
Gray could get me dead.
Since she couldn’t very well open the case and move the cash about on the street, she tightened her grip on the Gladstone and set off ag
ain, leery of what other traps lay in store.
It took a few hotels until she found one that had a room. When the clerk mentioned her accent, as he called it, she claimed to be from New York. That always did the trick.
He consulted his register. “I have only one room available. It has a sitting room with a separate bedchamber. It comes with attendance.”
Which meant you had a domestic fuss over you. That sounded good. A maid could bring you hot water for baths. “So why is it so busy?” she asked, signing the register.
“Between Guy Fawkes Day, the opening of Parliament, and the Lord Mayor’s Show, rooms are at a premium,” the clerk replied.
As he turned to retrieve the room key, his words hit home. “Guy Fawkes Day?”
The clerk turned around. “Oh, of course, you’re an American. You may not be aware of our celebrations. It is in honor of Guy Fawkes, who attempted to blow up Parliament as an act of rebellion. It is also called Bonfire Night.”
“Remember, remember, the fifth of November,” she murmured, her mind awhirl.
The clerk beamed. “I see you’ve heard the rhyme.”
As he selected the key and finished the paperwork, Cynda spied a newspaper lying on the counter. Pulling it toward her, she checked the date.
Sunday, November 4 1888
That wasn’t right. She was supposed to have arrived in London on the thirteenth of October, the night Nicci Hallcox met her Maker.
Off-time. It’d only happened to her once before, when she’d come to Victorian London in August to find a missing tourist. She would have blamed this episode on chron operator error, but she knew Morrisey wasn’t capable of making such a basic mistake.
Keeping her apprehensions to herself, she allowed the porter to carry her Gladstone to the room. Once she’d tipped him and shooed the dutiful maid out the door, she retreated to the bedroom and reset the interface for the night Keats’ life had slid off the rails.
