by Jana Oliver
Cynda leaned over the counter to rap her knuckles on its shiny silver head.
“You’re not paying attention. I don’t have a chip. So where’s the meeting?”
The bot chirped and beeped faster now. As the situation deteriorated, she felt her interface vibrate. Fulham. As she’d hoped, the watch dial said he’d been in contact with the boss, then told her precisely where to find Theo within the complex. As an aside, Fulham wished her good luck getting there.
Piece of cake. Bots were nothing compared to knife-wielding maniacs or deluded men intent on immolating history. Well, except Sigmund. For a bot, he was cool.
“Never mind,” she replied, clicking the watch closed. “I know where I need to go. Have a mindless day.”
As she headed down the hall past wide-eyed bystanders, she began to hum Rule Britannia just for spite. As she’d anticipated, there was the whir of the bot’s wheels as it hurried to catch up with her, spewing warnings nonstop now.
“Halt! Unauthorized intrusion. Return to the lobby immediately!” it chirped.
Cynda turned on a heel and glared at it. Her brother had trashed a couple of these things. How hard could it be?
It skidded to a halt. “Return to—”
“Oh, bugger off,” she said, taking a step toward it. Sensing the threat, the bot flew into reverse, nearly mowing down some poor fellow behind it. A red light began to whirl on the top of the thing. It was summoning Security.
Cynda laughed all the way to the room.
To her glee, her entrance was an eye-opener. She was in full Victorian garb, toting a Gladstone bag, and equipped with enough attitude to power a grav-rail station. After 1888 this was nothing. In fact, it was fun.
She slid into the empty chair next to Theo.
“Hello there,” she said.
“Welcome home, Jacynda. I’ve missed you.”
Bet you have. She clunked the Gladstone on the floor.
“Lassiter,” Senior Agent Klein said. “Quite an entrance. As usual.”
“Give it a bit. The front desk bot is pretty annoyed. It summoned Security.”
“Is it still in one piece?” Theo asked in amusement.
“For now.” He sought out her hand under the table and gave it a squeeze. She returned it. She’d missed him so much.
Mindful of their audience, Cynda slid her eyes toward the head of the table. “Chairman Fletcher,” she greeted with a nod of respect.
“Lassiter,” Fletcher acknowledged. “Don’t remember your name being on the roster, but I’ll add you to the agenda.” She tapped on the holo-keyboard in front of her. “I’ll cancel the security bots while I’m at it.” A few more taps and then she looked up. “I think you know almost everyone else, except for Mr. Randolph.”
Cynda catalogued those around the table. Besides Theo and Klein, there were Johns Hopkins, Ex-Chairman Davies and the aforementioned Mr. Randolph. Probably Davies’ legal mouthpiece.
“Hi, Hopkins,” she called down the table. “How’s it going?”
“Not bad,” he replied, sending her a grin. “You?”
“Never been better.”
“Your timing’s good,” Fletcher remarked. “Mr. Davies is explaining to us what happened in 1888.”
Cynda leaned back in her chair. “Can’t wait to hear this.”
She gave him two minutes. She counted it out in her head. She could do that now that 1888 was right again. And in those two minutes, he’d avoided responsibility with every single word.
“We were solely concerned with returning Defoe to our time. He was out of control,” Davies said, leveling his eyes at Cynda. “Much like Miss Lassiter.”
“That was the only reason you had your people in ’88?” Fletcher challenged.
“Yes.”
He’d stepped right in it.
Cynda synced up her interface to the terminal embedded in the tabletop, waiting for the digital record to advance to the precise moment before Copeland appeared in Mitre Square. Davies watched her like she’d just pulled a knife at an ice cream parlor.
Not a bad idea.
She dug out the blade and placed it in front of her.
“What is that?” Fletcher asked, peering at it curiously.
“Amputation knife. They think Jack the Ripper used one like this.”
“Wicked,” Fletcher exclaimed, smiling.
“Sure is. Copeland brought it to our meeting in Mitre Square.”
“My God,” Theo murmured. He’d known of her injuries, but not what had inflicted them.
“Copeland?” Davies repeated, as if it was the first time he’d heard the name.
Cynda played along. “The former military jock. He was Hopkins’ partner.”
“We have a number of sub-contractors at TPB,” Davies replied dismissively.
“This one’s special. Copeland was involved in the death of Chris Stone.”
“I sincerely doubt that. Stone committed suicide.”
“No, his death was an accident, but the torture he endured was deliberate.”
“Speculation,” Davies shot back.
“Not anymore. Copeland was paired up with Dalton Mimes. I watched them drop Chris’ body in the Thames the night he died.”
“Given your psychiatric history, Miss Lassiter, it might be argued your testimony is of dubious value,” the lawyer spoke up.
The ants didn’t even raise their collective eyebrows. “I’m not the one on the hook here,” she replied, smiling.
“None of this has anything to do with me,” Davies protested.
“Let’s start with bribery, for one,” Klein weighed in. To his credit, he wasn’t gloating. “You paid off an employee at Time Immersion Corporation to ensure Stone’s body wouldn’t be returned home.”
“Which meant you knew my nephew was dead before Miss Lassiter found him,” Theo pointed out.
Davies frowned. “All right, I wanted him left there. It would only complicate things. But I had nothing to do with that so-called plot in 1888.”
“I’ll give you that one,” Cynda said. “You were too busy hiding your own mess.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She leaned over the table, relishing the moment. “Drogo.”
Davies’ face paled.
“Who’s Drogo?” Fletcher asked.
“I think it’s best to let Copeland answer that one.” Cynda performed the windings. “Pay attention, folks. There’ll be a quiz.”
It was hard to experience it again, to hear her enemy’s taunting laughter and her sharp cry of pain when the blade scored her flesh.
Too close. If she hadn’t delivered that punch to his chest, Copeland would have left her mutilated corpse cooling in the night air.
As he heard the battle for the first time, Theo sought her hand again, this time for reassurance. She watched his face grow ruddy, the muscles at his jaw clenching and unclenching.
“Sorry,” she whispered. He didn’t respond, too caught up in the drama pouring from the interface.
To her ears, her voice sounded thin, but at least it didn’t quaver.
“You’re not doing very well, Copeland. You didn’t blow up London and you can’t find Rover One. I’d say your string is running out. You’ve only got one chance left.”
“Which is?”
“Come back to ’058 and tell the truth about the Null Mem project.”
Across the table, the ex-chairman’s face went from pale to pasty white.
“Never heard of them.”
“Then how did you know there was more than one?”
As she and Copeland had bantered back and forth, he’d slowly nailed Davies to the cross for his transgressions.
“Why did Davies orphan the Null Mems in the time stream?”
“What better way to hide your mistakes?”
Then the battle had begun in earnest.
Cynda ended the recording the moment right after she’d bested Copeland and sent him to 2058. The portion of the recordin
g with Satyr was gone now, erased. Reading the holo-manual had proven worth the time.
“Who is this Drogo?” Fletcher asked.
“It’s a patient’s code name. He was given the Null Memory Restoration treatment to keep him from becoming a serial killer. When the treatment failed, Davies ordered him abandoned in the time stream.”
“Wait a minute,” Fletcher interjected, swiveling toward Klein. “Is this the NMR thing you told me about?”
“That’s it,” he replied. Then shook his head. “You put them in the time stream. I never would have thought you’d be that stupid, Davies.”
Davies drew himself up. “They had to go somewhere. They’re all violent psychopaths. We couldn’t keep them here.”
Fletcher’s face turned the color of her hair. “How many did you transport?”
“If he answers,” his mouthpiece began, “that would implicate Mr. Davies in the unlawful—”
“You’re damned right it will,” Fletcher barked. “How many?”
The lawyer whispered in his client’s ear, but Davies shook his head.
“Fifteen,” he admitted. “As best as we can tell, there are at least thirteen still alive.”
A Baker’s dozen of the worst.
“What time periods?” Fletcher demanded.
“We just dropped them where we felt they would do the least damage.”
“Least damage?” Theo growled. “How could you possibly think they wouldn’t present a threat to individual timelines? To history?”
“Ah, nothing to worry about,” Cynda cut in, her voice brittle. “What’s a few more Stalins, Rippers or Elizars?”
Davies fluffed up. “The psychiatrist in charge assured us they were incapable of doing any harm, at least to the timeline.”
“Walter Samuelson?” she quizzed. A nod. “Let me guess—he became a liability, didn’t he?”
Davies nodded. “Walter knew too much. He kept asking to visit Drogo and some of the others. He knew they were in the time stream, wanted to do a follow-up study.”
“So you ditched him in ’88.”
A wary nod. “It was his brother’s idea. We used Mimes to lure Walter into 1888. He thought he was going to meet Drogo.”
“What was Mimes’ payoff?” Klein quizzed.
Davies rubbed his face, his expression hunted. “We promised to hide the fact he’d ever been in 1888.”
“So his Name the Ripper book would look like actual scholarship rather than complete trash,” Cynda deduced.
“That was the deal. He’d make a lot of money off the book and that would ensure he kept quiet.”
“You didn’t think anyone would notice when Dr. Samuelson went missing?” Hopkins asked, incredulous.
Davies shook his head. “We didn’t care. By then, it was starting to fall apart.”
Which meant they weren’t thinking, just reacting.
“Why did you put one of these people in 1888?” Theo challenged. “You knew how volatile it was.”
“We didn’t. We dropped him in 1768. He forced a Rover to take him to the nineteenth century.”
“Which Rover?” Fletcher asked.
“Some guy named Miller.”
Frank Miller. Cynda groaned. Of course. The guy was so stupid he made a mud puddle look like a Mensa candidate.
“Wasn’t he an old boyfriend?” Mr. Spider chided from her shoulder.
Not for very long. Lesson learned.
“You covered up Miller’s bungle?” Fletcher asked.
Davies nodded. “Copeland still had a use for him, so we didn’t pull his license.”
Bait to keep me distracted. If she hadn’t been so disgusted with old Frank, it might have worked.
Fletcher’s face was less crimson now. “What have you done to retrieve these crazies?”
“We sent out a couple sub-contractors. They didn’t return.”
That wasn’t surprising. If any of the other Null Mems had Satyr’s cunning, it was a suicide run to go up against these guys.
“We’ll take care of them,” Klein said.
Cynda’s eyes met Hopkins. He’d be right in the firing line, one of the first into the time stream.
Sorry guy.
Fletcher leaned back in her chair. “Here’s how it’s going to work, Mr. Davies. You’re going to tell us about each of these transfers—names, dates, all of it. You understand?”
“The previous government is responsible for this. They dropped this mess in my lap,” Davies complained, his forehead damp with sweat now.
“Don’t give me the victim routine,” Fletcher snapped. “You could have raised a stink and stopped this disaster, but you didn’t. You played along and it got you the chairmanship.”
“I am not responsible!” Davies bellowed. “I had nothing to do with what happened to Stone or anyone else in 1888, and I shouldn’t pay the penalty.”
“Someone must,” Theo said evenly.
Cynda picked up the knife, weighing it in her hand. As she anticipated, all eyes swung in her direction. “You hired Copeland and he was your responsibility. While you were trying to save your own butt, you became a party to murder, kidnapping, torture...the whole works. You’re not walking on this one, Davies. We won’t let you. Someone has to pay the piper and it has to be you.”
“Why not Copeland? He did all this! Why isn’t he here?”
Klein started to chuckle. It was an odd sound, like a cat with a rusty purr. “Copeland’s dead. He didn’t survive the transfer from 1888. You’re the one holding the bag.”
Davies’ anger collapsed. He motioned to his lawyer and they whispered back and forth earnestly. After some heated discussion, Randolph sighed.
“Mr. Davies will cooperate,” he announced, “as long as he is given immunity to future prosecution.”
“To hell with that!” Theo roared, pounding the table with his fist. Everyone jumped at his raw fury, including Cynda. “He’s got as much blood on his hands as Copeland or any of the others.”
“You’ll not get the information any other way,” the lawyer replied.
Theo’s face hardened. She knew that look. A samurai adopts it right before he lops off your head. “Then if we grant him immunity, he’s sent Off-Grid. Permanently.”
For a moment, she thought Davies was having a heart attack.
“Good God, that’s a…a death sentence,” the man sputtered. “You know what it’s like out there.”
“Yes, I do,” Theo replied coldly.
“We’ll fight this,” the lawyer replied. “You can’t force him to do this.”
“You might be surprised,” Klein replied. He gestured to Hopkins. “Get him out of here. We’ll talk details later.”
As Davies and his lawyer departed, Cynda spied three black-suited Guv agents in the hallway. The guys from 1888. She shot one of them a wink, and his mouth twitched up in a grin. They quickly formed a cordon around the prisoner. She could just imagine what the AdminBot would think of that.
The second after the door closed, Cynda shut down the interface and repacked her Gladstone, eager for a shower and a nap. The adrenalin rush was ebbing faster than she’d expected.
“Who Null Mem’d you?” Klein asked.
She shrugged. “Not everything is clear about that.” Because I don’t want it to be.
Klein shot her a dubious look. “What about this Drogo guy in 1888?”
“I’d worry about the others first.”
“Why are you protecting him?” the agent asked.
“Consider it my compensation for this whole fiasco. There are worse monsters to hunt.”
“You’re not going to tell us, are you?” he said.
“Nothing to tell. The bad guys didn’t win this round. That’s all that matters.”
“But what about the next time?” Fletcher asked, meeting her gaze.
Cynda rose, Gladstone in hand. “Then it’ll be another madman’s dance.”
Chapter 27
Saturday night, and the Time Pod was packed. They
’d commandeered a table, ordered some beer and pizza. Her former boss seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Far too much,” Mr. Spider observed. “He’s like a kid out on his first date.”
She felt the same.
“Not quite like the Ten Bells,” Theo observed with a grin.
“Nothing is like the Ten Bells.”
“Why haven’t they posted the results yet?” Hopkins complained.
“It takes time,” Ralph replied. “Have another beer.”
Hopkins gave Cynda a look. She nodded. “Okay, it’s on me.”
He tapped in the order on the tabletop and then waited for the waitress. At least the Time Pod still used real people, not ServBots. When she arrived, their waitress was clad like someone from Ancient Rome. Cynda didn’t have the heart to tell the woman the costume wasn’t at all authentic.
It had taken a great deal of time to get Cynda’s run report past the security clearances, including Fletcher’s and Klein’s sign-off. In the end, it included all the juicy bits about her saving Defoe’s life, preventing a repeat of 1666 and bringing a murderer to justice without mentioning the Futures or the shifters. In a nod for his “cooperation” Davies was left out of it, all the blame falling upon a deceased TPB heavy named Copeland. The run report’s glaring holes would give the conspiracy theorists new fodder to chew on.
“This is going to put you on the top,” Ralph said confidently.
Or not. The groupies were fickle. They might think she’d sold out Rover One when she’d sent him home with the bullet wound in his chest. That would banish her from the boards forever.
“I’m still in third place!” Hopkins crowed as the reports began to jigger the rankings. He was going to be a handful tonight.
“I’m in ninth,” Cynda grumbled.
Hopkins smirked. “Life’s a bitch.”
“Go ahead, be smug. Your day is coming, buddy.”
He guffawed. With Copeland dead, Hopkins was euphoric. He still hadn’t learned that the good guys don’t always win.
It took some time for her run report to reach the tables and the Vid-Net.
