A Sword in Time

by Cidney Swanson

  “I think you’re wrong, sir—”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, would it, Nevis? Remind me who’s in charge here? Oh, that’s right. I am. And I’m telling you to stop pursuing this imaginary case and get on that plane tonight.”

  Nevis fumed in silence.

  “Do you think this is some kind of goddamn vacation you’re on?” demanded the SAC.

  “No, sir,” replied Nevis.

  “Good. Because neither do I. I want you in Louisville tonight.”

  Silence.

  “Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Nevis? If I find out you aren’t on that plane, you can consider yourself unemployed.”

  The phone made a clicking noise.

  “Sir?”

  Silence.

  The SAC had hung up on him.

  Nevis grabbed one of the hotel’s complimentary plastic bottles of water and hurled it at the opposite wall where it exploded, splashing the nightstand and one of the queen beds.

  There was something going on with Littlewood, or there had been—Nevis was sure of it. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to drop the whole thing, fall in line, and stay out of trouble. Not when he had a chance to crack a case like this. It was the opportunity he’d been waiting for: a way to advance his career so that his next move was upward instead of the lateral crap he’d been saddled with since Lewiston’s disappearance.

  He had the rest of the day at the Wellesley Hampton Inn. After that, the bureau expected him to be in Louisville for a week. Fine. That gave him another six hours. He would make the most of them. One last visit to chat with Arthur Littlewood at his off-campus location. One last chance to crack things wide open.

  One thing was for sure. This time, Nevis was getting some answers.

  45

  • QUINTUS •

  Rome, 53 BC

  Quintus took the measure of the five men seated at the taberna. Two were slaves who kept their eyes on their masters. The slaves were burly and armed with clubs, but based on the sloppy manner in which they held their weapons, it was not likely they had been trained to fight. The third and fourth, both freemen, were removing their togas and folding them with care. At least one of them had been drinking.

  That left the fifth—a youth. Quintus frowned. It was the same youth from the group who had earlier attacked DaVinci.

  Cursing under his breath, Quintus felt a flash of anger at himself as he examined his surroundings. He had rented an insula from which there was only one escape route—the road to the right. And there, cutting off their retreat, were four more men who had spaced themselves across the passageway, making clear they were the companions of those seated at the tavern. Quintus swore. Where had his soldierly instincts been when he’d chosen this residence? He knew where: in Florida, in a land where such instincts were not needed.

  The street yawned before him, lazily inviting him to take his chances.

  Of the four blocking the road, one was armed and dressed to fight, clearly a freeman, but Quintus wasn’t certain from the dress of the others whether they were slaves or paid servants. The freeman looked vaguely familiar, but Quintus could not place him. It mattered not. The man and his bulky companions had murder written in their glances.

  “Excrementum,” muttered DaVinci, pointing to the four waiting down the street.

  She’d seen them, too.

  Excrementum, indeed.

  Nine to one. Even with one of them drunk, and slaves who might not fight well, the odds were distinctly bad.

  Without removing his gaze from the street, Quintus murmured to DaVinci, “If I ask you to return inside, will you comply?”

  She shook her head, filling Quintus’s periphery with a shimmer of red and gold.

  “These men are bent on a fight,” said Quintus.

  To Quintus’s great surprise, DaVinci laughed softly, producing a dagger.

  “Maybe that son of a canis came back for this,” she said, hefting the dagger the youth had thrown at her.

  Quintus did not correct her as to what the son of a rabid dog had returned for.

  “Your instincts in the last fight were good,” he said, “but you have not the strength to resist the larger or more sober of this group. I beg of you to reconsider and return inside.”

  “I won’t,” replied the girl at his side. And then, more softly, “I won’t leave you alone.”

  A door to the right of the tavern opened briefly as an elderly man began to step out. But after assessing the situation in the street, the old man retreated, slamming the door and sliding the bolt home.

  Quintus swallowed. The girl would resist him if he tried to force her back inside; he saw it in the stubborn set of her jaw. By all the gods, he had never felt for any woman what he felt for this fierce girl.

  “Hold your blade thus,” Quintus said to DaVinci, indicating the grip on his gladius. “And strike to injure, not to mortally wound. The punishment for a slave who kills is . . . unspeakably grim.”

  The girl nodded. Hefted her blade. Swept her shining hair behind her shoulders. Gods, she was glorious.

  And then, together, the two stepped into the street.

  46

  • EVERETT •

  Florida, July

  Everett, arriving at the lab at eleven on Saturday morning, was the first to notice something was wrong.

  Jillian’s car was parked outside the lab, but neither Jillian nor DaVinci was there. Hands on his hips, Everett surveyed the lab. All was quiet. Empty. Not even Quintus was there, which in and of itself would not have troubled Everett; Quintus was only scheduled to stand guard until sunrise. But the presence of Jillian’s car, in combination with the absence of, well, everyone, was odd.

  Most members of the twenty-first century would have cleared everything up with a quick text or phone call. But while Everett owned a cell phone, using it was rarely his first impulse. Jillian teased him mercilessly, calling him a Luddite. He didn’t mean to be backward, but having grown up without constant connectivity, he had trouble remembering it was there for him when he needed it.

  In his defense, the first resource he turned to was technological in nature. He crossed quickly to Quintus’s desk to check the monitor records of entries and exits at the laboratory building. Someone had entered at 1:44 a.m. He checked the video record. It was DaVinci. If Jillian’s car was still out front, DaVinci must still be nearby. Hastily, Everett scanned forward past 2:00 a.m., 4:00 a.m., 6:00 a.m., and up to the present. The door hadn’t been opened again until his own arrival. There was always Littlewood’s spare office, through the little-used door at the corner farthest from the basement stairs. Perhaps for some reason DaVinci and Quintus had chosen to enter it, but upon checking, Everett found the tiny room as empty as the basement.

  There was only one other way to leave . . .

  Frowning, Everett strode to the time machine, checking for recent usage.

  He found it: the machine had been used, but it had been hours ago, and no one had returned yet, which could only mean one thing—their trip must have been plotted to the very recent past.

  Who would want to travel to the recent past? His heart skipped a beat as the pieces fell together.

  DaVinci.

  Oh, heavens . . .

  Everett typed in commands to bring up the exact configurations for the machine’s last time and place settings, but at that moment, the computer decided to run a series of self-checks prior to reporting the information.

  “Now?” groaned Everett.

  DaVinci had talked about visiting the recent past to alter the changes she’d made. She must be attempting it. Could she have persuaded Quintus to assist her? She must have; Quintus hadn’t left the building.

  As the machine continued its diagnostics, another possibility occurred to Everett: perhaps Quintus had been transported accidentally in an attempt to stop DaVinci.

  The machine beeped and Everett glance at the display showing the last transport configuration. He
blinked to clear his eyes. The destination setting hadn’t been recent. Not remotely recent. Two persons had used the machine to travel to ancient Rome—to Quintus’s time—at 1:45 a.m., which was over nine hours ago. It made no sense. They ought to have returned just before two in the morning, and it was nearly eleven. Everett searched again for a record of their return journey, but there was none. It was as if the machine was malfunctioning.

  This was the moment Everett realized he should be placing phone calls.

  Seizing the phone Jillian had given him, he texted Littlewood that something was wrong with the singularity device, that Quintus and DaVinci appeared to have used it, and to please come to the lab immediately. Then he called Jillian.

  She answered, sleep slurring her voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Goodness. Were you sleeping?”

  “DaVinci kept us up late. West Coast time.”

  “Of course, of course.” Everett took a deep breath. “Jillian, I’m terribly sorry to tell you, but DaVinci took your car last night and drove here to the lab, where I am at present, and it would appear she and Quintus used the time machine to travel to Rome in 53 BC.”

  “Wait—they did what?”

  Everett could hear the rustle of bedcovers thrown hastily aside.

  “They traveled to ancient Rome,” Everett repeated. “What is more, while I can see the record of their outbound journey, I can find nothing indicating they returned.”

  “Well, give them a couple of minutes—”

  “They’ve been gone nine hours.”

  “That’s not possible,” whispered Jillian.

  “I texted Dr. Littlewood. Oh—I beg your pardon. He is replying. One moment, if you please.” Everett read the text and returned to his call. “He is on his way.”

  “I’ll be right over.” Jillian hung up before Everett could remind her she had no car to drive “right over.” Seconds later, she texted him: Calling a taxi.

  Four minutes later, Littlewood arrived with a worried expression on his face. He strode straight to the time machine podium, murmuring to himself about his terrible capacity for distraction.

  “What is it?” asked Everett. “What’s wrong?”

  “This is all my fault,” said Littlewood. “It must be . . .” He broke off, fingers flying over the podium screen. “Oh dear. Oh dear.”

  “What is it?” asked Everett.

  Littlewood met Everett’s gaze. “I, ah, well, I had an idea for changing the duration of the temporal—that is, it wasn’t my idea. Well, the idea was mine but not mine per se. Credit where credit is due, you know—”

  “Out with it!” cried Everett. “What did you do?”

  “I . . . ah, that is, a me from the future came up with a method whereby travel into the past might be extended. And I . . . well, I may have modified the frequency generator to operate at the third harmonic.”

  “And that means what, exactly?” said Everett.

  “It means the singularity device was configured for an extended journey.”

  “An . . . extended journey?” Everett’s eyes grew wide. “Is that even possible? Have you tested it?”

  “Well, now . . .”

  “You haven’t tested it.”

  “Well, no, not me, personally, although it would appear a test is underway . . .”

  Everett paled. Neither DaVinci nor Quintus would have any idea what had prevented them from returning. From returning hours ago. They must be terrified. Everett turned to Littlewood.

  “How long will their stay have been extended, exactly?”

  Littlewood grimaced. “Ah. Yes. Without having tested things properly—”

  “And you didn’t think to mention this to anyone?”

  Littlewood, worrying the collar of his jacket, shrugged miserably.

  As Everett stood, silently taking all of it in, Jillian arrived.

  “Where are they?” she cried, striding across the room. “Why aren’t they back yet? Are they okay?” She turned to Everett. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

  Everett patted his pocket, where his phone should have been but wasn’t. Jillian crossed to his desk to retrieve it and then handed it to him without a word. He felt his face flushing. Jillian had sent seven text messages, all variations of Are they going to be okay?

  “I apologize most sincerely,” he murmured, taking Jillian’s hand. “I can’t seem to remember to keep it with me.”

  “I know,” Jillian said quietly.

  Littlewood looked up from the podium screen.

  “They should return late this afternoon.” He raked long fingers through his untidy hair. “If my calculations are correct. That is, if my, ah, future self’s calculations . . . Of course, I haven’t actually tested it yet, to know with certainty.”

  Everett turned to Jillian and explained that the professor had been experimenting with length of stays and had forgotten to put the settings back to normal.

  Jillian shook her head in disbelief. “But Quintus and DaVinci won’t have any idea what’s wrong. They probably think they’re stuck forever.”

  “And we have no method whereby to communicate with them,” Littlewood added morosely. “We could try traveling to their last known location, but without knowing the customs and language, or where they might have wandered to in five hours—”

  “We’d never find them,” said Jillian.

  “I meant to run tests, but I became distracted,” Littlewood said glumly. “I planned to use an animal as a guinea pig, you know.”

  “An animal as a guinea pig?” said Jillian.

  Littlewood nodded. “I considered purchasing an actual guinea pig, but then I thought about the tortoise that likes to sun itself along the north wall of the building—”

  “Not Alistair,” murmured Jillian. “Tell me you didn’t run an experiment on poor Alistair.”

  Everett thought it was a better idea than running an experiment on Quintus and DaVinci, but he kept the thought to himself.

  “No, I didn’t have the chance,” said Littlewood. “I recalibrated the settings on the singularity device, but when I went outside to look for, ah, for Alistair, he was nowhere to be found. And then I . . . well, I became distracted and, oh dear . . . This is all my fault.”

  Everett and Jillian exchanged glances. Littlewood’s forgetfulness was legendary.

  “No one could have foreseen what DaVinci and Quintus would do,” said Everett.

  “It’s not your fault,” said Jillian, placing a gentle hand on Littlewood’s shoulder.

  “An experiment might be helpful, though,” said Everett. “Not on Alistair,” he added. “But it would give us something to do, while we wait.”

  “Something to do would be good,” Jillian murmured softly, nodding.

  “Yes,” nodded Littlewood. “There are contingencies for which one ought to be prepared . . .”

  “We could run a test on a plant specimen, perhaps?” said Everett, gazing at a potted jade plant Quintus had brought inside.

  “Ah, well, I think it needs to be something more . . . alive than that,” said Littlewood.

  “Plants are alive,” said Jillian.

  “But they won’t die without oxygen,” replied Littlewood.

  “Why is that a problem?” asked Jillian.

  “Because of concerns to do with the length of the return journey?” asked Everett, looking to Littlewood.

  “I’m not certain, of course,” replied Littlewood, “but it did occur to me that if the duration of the stay is extended, the duration of the return journey might also be somewhat lengthened.”

  “Oh no,” said Jillian. “So that part when we time travel back home, and we can’t move or breathe for half a minute—”

  “I’m not certain,” said Littlewood. “So I wanted to see how the tortoise fared.”

  “Tortoises can survive without oxygen for much longer than humans,” said Jillian. “Branson had a tortoise,” she added by way of explanation.

  At that moment, Littlewoo
d’s cell phone rang.

  He stared at the caller ID as if puzzled and then excused himself to take the call in his adjacent office.

  Everett spoke, addressing Jillian. “I believe we must experiment using a living creature.”

  “It would help to have something . . . active to do,” she said, worrying her hands, “but if we discover bad news . . .”

  “All the more reason to test,” said Everett. “If we discover bad news, we bring in emergency medical assistance.” Everett broke off. “Hang on,” he said, swiftly capturing a moth that had been resting on the wall.

  “A thousand apologies,” murmured Littlewood, returning to their conversation. “Had to take it, though. Unavoidable. Important business.”

  The fax on Littlewood’s desk began printing. All three turned toward the noise.

  Littlewood nodded and murmured, “Ah. There it is. Good, good,” before turning back to Everett and Jillian. “That document can wait. My apologies. Where were we?”

  “We need to prepare,” said Everett.

  “We need to figure out what we might need to prepare for,” clarified Jillian, “by sending something, but a tortoise wouldn’t have worked—they can hold their breath a long time.”

  “I captured a moth,” said Everett. “Will that suffice?”

  Littlewood nodded. “Yes. Excellent. Now then, if we wish to, ah, learn the probable fate awaiting our friends, we must choose a destination for our moth that will allow it to return ahead of our friends.”

  Everett had already thought about this. “I suggest we try setting the outbound journey for the moth using the second harmonic, which will extend the moth’s stay in the past but still return it ahead of Quintus and DaVinci, who traveled using the third harmonic.”

  “Ah yes,” said Littlewood, brows raised. “The second harmonic. Faster. Good thinking.”

  “And I know a place and time where we can send the moth so that no one will notice its appearance or disappearance,” said Everett.

  “Indeed?” asked Littlewood.

  “To my bedroom, in 1919,” Everett replied. “After my . . . well, after the death of my other self, my parents shut the door and allowed no one to open it.”