by Jana Oliver
A wry chuckle. “Well, I’m sure as hell not going to get myself shrunk to a nanobit just out of curiosity, that’s for sure.”
Klein arrived at that moment. “Fletcher. Morrisey.” The agent tapped his foot twice on the floor plate, and a table slowly rose into position between them. He took a seat. “How’s Lassiter?”
Theo shot Klein a questioning look.
“You can speak freely,” the agent assured him. “Fletcher’s in the loop.”
“Miss Lassiter is holding it together,” Theo replied. “I’ve not seen any signs that she’s out of control. If anything, she’s more subdued than usual.”
“Did she really bust TPB’s shrink in the jaw?” Fletcher asked.
Theo nodded. “Quite a scene,” he commented with a smirk.
“Wish I’d been there.”
The senior agent cocked his head. “I forwarded that coin to Fletcher. Figured she might be able to help us.”
“Cue miniaturization expert.” She tossed the disk on the table. “As you guessed, it’s not of 1888 origin. This critter contains a miniature amplifier. It receives a signal, pumps it up and passes it on.”
“What sort of signal?” Theo asked.
“We’re not sure. It’s not electromagnetic or a vid-rad frequency. Common waveforms do nothing to excite it; neither do temperature changes, humidity or atmospheric pressure.” Fletcher leaned forward. “Why is this thing so important?”
Theo frowned. “How open are we being here?”
“Her security clearance is equal to yours,” Klein replied.
Theo tapped on the table and a small keyboard projected itself onto the top. Another tap, and a port appeared into which he synced up his interface. A holographic display shimmered into being in the air above the keyboard, the electronic version of the maps he’d created while in the East End.
“9 November, 1888. Lord Mayor’s Day. Nineteen explosions ranging from Bethnal Green to Rotherhithe across the Thames.” He pressed a key. “On 12 November…”
By the time Theo finished his holographic destruction of London, Klein’s eyes were closed in thought. A vein throbbed near his temple.
“Damn, that’s ugly,” Fletcher said. “Will it ripple forward?”
“Very likely.” Theo gestured at the disk. “One of the Victorians found this near where they were storing the explosives. I began to wonder if it had something to do with the accuracy of the detonations.”
She grinned. “I think it does. What if a time pulse initiates a chain reaction, moving forward coin by coin?”
“How does that trigger the explosion?” Klein asked.
“If the coin heats up during the process, they just need to have it in contact with the gunpowder,” Theo explained.
Fletcher picked up the coin, studying it under the lights. “Which means your Victorians had a technological power assist.”
“TPB?” Klein pounced.
“Not their style,” Fletcher replied.
“Don’t be so sure. They kicked you off the Board right before this whole thing fell out,” Klein countered. “Seems like a move to keep you out of whatever they’re up to.”
“Davies isn’t that smart,” Fletcher maintained. “Trust me on this.”
Klein leaned back. “Who, then? Do you know anyone doing this sort of work?”
“We haven’t gone this far yet,” Fletcher replied, shaking her head. “Just basic products like the chrono-tint wall color that changes every couple of hours. Making a damned fortune off that stuff.” She picked up the coin. “I estimate this is at least ten years down the line. Actually, less now.”
She grinned, deftly rolling the disk over the knuckles of her right hand and then back again. “We’ll reverse engineer it. I love it when someone else does the R&D.”
Theo’s headache edged up another notch.
“Oh, come on, gentlemen,” Fletcher chided. “We all know this came from the future. Just admit it.”
“That’s the last damned thing I want to admit,” Klein said.
Fletcher spread her hands. “No other conclusion.” She looked over at Theo for support.
“Agreed,” he said reluctantly. “At present, we use pulses to determine the location of a Rover during Inbound and Outbound travel. There’s also some pulsing during side-hops.” He frowned. “Any Rover with an interface could trigger this sequence. They might not even know they’re doing it.”
“But you didn’t set them off,” Klein argued.
“Just luck, I guess.”
“What happens if you don’t stop this? How big of a ripple will there be?” the agent demanded.
Theo keyed the question into the computer, without bothering to input a security screening code. Guv’s computer system would be airtight.
Unlike his computer, this one didn’t generate a Renaissance or Baroque painting in the air above the keyboard while it cogitated. Instead it painstakingly constructed an image of a beehive. All the bees were drones.
Guv’s view of an ideal society.
“Task complete.” Even the computer voice was bland.
“Run task report,” he ordered. The hive melted away. “The truncated version,” he added.
“Destruction of 1888 London will substantially affect the power of the British Empire for a period of nine point three years. Other opportunistic governments will take advantage and capture British colonial outposts, including India, Burma, Singapore and Egypt. This disruption will significantly impact British capabilities in the First World War and delay Allied entry into the Second World War. With the rise of Russia in—”
“Cut to the chase,” Klein demanded. “What about 2058?”
“Unknown,” the computer replied. “Unable to determine extent of changes beyond the end of the twentieth century due to unspecified parameters.”
“What parameters are those?” Theo asked the computer.
“Indefinable.”
Fletcher scoffed. “God, that’s helpful.”
“What are the chances of a total disconnect between 1888 and 2058?” Theo quizzed.
“Ninety-six point two percent.”
Fletcher whistled.
“End query,” Theo murmured. “With so much change, time travel may not be discovered the second time around, or be significantly delayed. My guess is that we have one shot at this.”
“You going back?” Fletcher asked.
“Of course,” Theo replied. “That’s where it’s all happening.”
Klein shook his head. “My bosses will have a fit.”
“Don’t tell them.”
“Yeah, right. I’m the one stuck here taking the heat, Morrisey.”
“From whom?” Theo scolded. “If this plot plays out, neither Guv nor you may exist.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“There’s one other matter,” Theo began. “Both Miss Lassiter and Harter have been off-timed. Did Guv have anything to do with that?”
Klein shook his head. “Too hard to pull off.”
Which means you’ve tried it.
“What’s off-timed?” Fletcher asked.
“A Rover sets his interface for a specific location and time, and is diverted to another by a secondary source,” Theo explained. “Miss Lassiter found herself at the exact moment my nephew’s body was discarded in the Thames.” He paused, about to hand Guv the ammunition they needed to bring down their hated rival. “Dalton Mimes was there…and so was Copeland. He was involved in Chris’ murder.”
The senior Guv agent’s face actually cracked a smile, the muscles twitching slightly as if unaccustomed to the task. “You know, my gut told me he was good for it.”
“Copeland?” Fletcher asked.
Klein ignored her, his smile widening. “If we can get him to roll over on Davies and the rest of the Board…”
Theo slowly rose from the chair, unsteady on his feet. He didn’t care about this petty war anymore. No matter how Guv played it, Chris was still dead. “I really need to get back.”
“TPB is in the process of shutting down all travel to 1888, saying it’s too unstable,” Klein advised. “They’re pulling out all the tourists and the Rovers. Sending in a big team isn’t going to be an option.”
“I agree,” Theo said. “How many can I have?”
“Whomever I commit to this mission may not return. That means they have to be unmarried.” The agent frowned, thinking it through. “Three agents plus Hopkins. He’s already in ’88. I’ll tell him you’re in charge of the operation.”
“Thank you.”
“If you find Copeland,” Klein began, the smile appearing again, “send him our way.”
“Of course.” Providing he’s still breathing when I finish with him.
Chapter 15
Friday, 9 November, 1888
Arundel Hotel
When Cynda kept ignoring his attempts to rouse her, Mr. Spider threatened to build a web in her left ear. That pulled her out of bed faster than any alarm.
“Other Rovers get nice delusions,” she groused, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“You get what you deserve,” was the swift reply. “Besides, the boss is back. He’s all fired up.”
The instant she exited the bedroom, Theo popped up out of the chair and started talking nonstop. She only caught some of the words: sixpence, time pulse, gunpowder.
Then it hit her. “Time pulse? That’s from our time.”
He nodded energetically. “It’s my guess there’s one of those coins in each barrel. When a time pulse reaches it, it heats up and sets off the gunpowder, which ignites the dynamite, all at strict intervals. Before it does that, however, the pulse is passed on to the next coin, and so on.”
Cynda lowered herself onto the couch. “You suspected something like this, didn’t you?”
“Not exactly, but I’ve always felt there was something bigger at work than a few disgruntled shifters. Until I saw that coin, I’d thought I was just being paranoid.”
“Can we stop them?” she asked.
His energy began to fade. “I’m not sure.”
“If we don’t, we’re marooned.”
“That’s a distinct possibility.” His tone was gentler than usual, more introspective.
“Well, there are worse places to be exiled,” she remarked. “I’ve been to some of them.”
What would it be like to live here? She could easily pawn the Prince’s necklace for money and live comfortably by Victorian standards. Her knowledge of the future would work in her favor. There’d be Sunday carriages rides in Hyde Park with Sephora. She could visit the Crystal Palace with Keats, have lunch with H.G. Wells, watch Davy Butler grow up.
It sounded great, but she knew it would get old very quickly. Society’s complex rules would chafe her just as much as in 2058. Once the disease shield wore off and the Dinky Docs were exhausted, she would be at the mercy of nineteenth century medicine.
Then there was the matter of Theo. She’d already noted Keats’ disapproval. How well would Alastair and the sergeant take to his presence on a permanent basis?
“You’re forgetting something,” Mr. Spider nudged.
The bombs.
Her eyes met Theo’s. He’d been thinking along the same lines. If they didn’t get this fixed, London would be a pile of ash.
“I think it’s best we don’t get marooned,” he said.
“I heartily agree.”
~••~••~••~
They all stood under a rotting overhang, out of sight of the locals and constables as the rain pelted down unmercifully. Cynda’s boots were leaking and she was wet to her ankles. Her male disguise was a disadvantage: she was used to having more layers to keep her warm.
“You understand what you have to do?” Theo asked, brusque even for him.
“Yes, I understand.” Hopkins said. He was being polite. Theo had repeatedly explained the plan until Cynda thought their heads would explode.
“What about you?” Theo asked, eyeing her.
“I got it.” The first time you told me. And the fifth.
His uncharacteristic case of nerves was fueling hers. If he was that worried, what chance did they have of stopping this?
Theo turned his intense gaze to the three Guv agents behind her. “What about you guys?”
Three nods, all in unison. They never spoke. Maybe they’re all mutes.
“Your first priority is to neutralize the explosives. If you can capture the delivery man, that’s great, but it’s not paramount.”
None of this was new. He could have summed it up easily: find bombs, disarm them, head to the nearest pub to celebrate.
“One last thing.” He lowered his voice dramatically, so they had to crowd close to hear him. “Do not use your interfaces to communicate, to execute a transfer or even a side-hop. If you create a time pulse within fifty yards of any of the barrels, you may trigger an explosion and start the chain reaction prematurely. We go about this low tech. Understand?”
That was new. Nothing like saving the best for last.
“Expect some pushback,” he warned. “If you have any trouble with a local, turn them over to the constables. You’ll find one patrolling the street near your location. If they give you any problems, let them know that Sir Charles Warren, the police commissioner, has approved our efforts. If anyone asks, you’re with Pinkerton’s. Once you’ve finished, go back to the rendezvous point.”
“How did you get Warren to sign off on that?” Cynda asked, perplexed.
“I didn’t. Someone else pressured him.” The look he gave her told her not to pursue the issue.
“Got it,” she said. “Can we go now?”
“Yes.”
There were grunts of acknowledgement as the pack scattered. Hopkins took off at a brisk pace, heading north with the other agents. Then it was just the two of them. Cynda was only a few blocks away from her first location, so she waited for Theo to leave. He didn’t. Instead, he stepped closer.
“I know what I’m supposed to do,” she said, her patience gone.
He put his hand on her cheek. It felt warm to the touch despite the weather. He’d forgotten she was dressed as a man. Luckily, no one was nearby.
“I wanted you to know…” He hesitated. “I…” Clearly unable to put his feelings into words, he bent closer and kissed her lips. The kiss was feather light. When she didn’t pull away, the second was stronger, more insistent.
This feels right.
She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer. The last kiss warmed her all the way to her cold toes.
Theo drew back. He smiled, as if he’d won a major victory. “That’s all I needed to know. Keep yourself safe, for me.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she cautioned, her eyes threatening to fill with tears and embarrass her. “The paperwork would be a bitch.”
He laughed and strode away, opening his black umbrella. Right before he turned the corner, he blew her a kiss. Cynda watched until he was no longer in sight. A shard of foreboding sliced through her. She shook herself, trying to ignore it. Theo Morrisey would take care of himself. They’d sort things out later. She had bombs to disarm.
She heard a slight pop and found Mr Spider had just opened his own umbrella. That was just too weird for words.
If this went wrong, there would be no TEM Enterprises, no job or family. Theo would be just some guy walking around London in the rain, trying to find a way to get them home. Whatever home might be like at that point.
“Let’s get this fixed,” the spider urged.
Johns Hopkins leaned against a mailbox. It was garish red, with that stylized VR on it to let you know the Queen owned the thing. Why bother to put the initials on it? She owned almost everything as far as he could see. He cut into the nearest backyard through a wicker gate and surveyed the terrain. Privy, outdoor water pump, a patch of mud that might have been a garden in the summer. Consulting Morrisey’s map, he skirted along the side of the house to where the barrel should be.
Not
hing.
For a second, he thought he’d entered the wrong yard. He searched the area again. No barrel. A thick knot began forming in his stomach as he headed for his next location.
“Where the hell are you?” Cynda muttered. Mr. Spider bounded off her shoulder, floating downward with his wee umbrella. “You see anything?”
“No.”
She studied her paper again, trying to keep stray drops of rain from falling on it. At least the deluge had let up. Jamming the paper into a pocket, she did one more circuit. No barrel. Her interface said it was half past ten. They were cutting it too close.
Hopkins was losing time. The woman in front of him was huge, with fists any boxer would envy. He’d hoped the constable loitering in the street would hear the commotion and deal with her, but so far that hadn’t happened.
“I don’t like no strangers waltzin’ around my house,” she exclaimed, glowering at him.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You a rozzer?”
From her tone, it sounded like a good idea not to be a police officer. “No, ma’am. I’m with…” The Pinkerton cover wouldn’t work with this sort. “I’m with the gas people. We were concerned about a leak.”
“Oh…” she said, her arms uncrossing. “Why you workin’ on a holiday?”
“Just my lot in life,” he said, spreading his hands.
That seemed to mollify her. “Well then, have a look round. I don’t want to pay for no gas that I don’t use, you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, touching his hat in respect. She retreated into the house to screech at an indeterminate number of grubby urchins.
He let loose a puff of air and then spent time examining the gas pipe as expected. When she didn’t return, he headed toward where the barrel would be. It wasn’t there.
“Now come on,” he said, swiveling in the mud. A few minutes later, he was back on the march toward site number one, the knot in his stomach now the size of a baseball.
Chapter 16
