The Trouble With Time

by Lexi Revellian

  “Jace!” She ran across the room, just as if she’d been waiting five years for this moment. Their arms went round each other. Floss walked slowly to the door and closed it, feeling somewhat de trop. By the time she turned back, they were standing a little apart, eyes locked together.

  Jace said, “Well. Hi.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Bad stuff. Good stuff. Life.”

  Kayla gazed at him, shaking her head. “Same old Jace. You look terrific. Ansel’s jacket suits you. You know there’s a warrant out for your arrest?”

  “Yeah.” He gave her a slow smile Floss hadn’t seen before. “Are you going to arrest me, then?”

  “I ought to. What are you doing here?”

  “Lying low.”

  “Where’s Ansel?”

  “I don’t know. He wasn’t here when I woke up.” This lie cheered Floss, for reasons she did not analyse. Ha. Doesn’t seem like he trusts her any more than I do.

  A tiny line appeared between Kayla’s eyebrows. “He was expecting me. It’s not like him not to be here. I hope nothing’s happened . . .”

  Kayla sat on the sofa and checked her phone, at the same time undoing her jacket to reveal a lowish-cut top. Jace settled on the sofa arm, still gazing at her. Floss, having become invisible, perched on the chair across the room by the computer and watched them.

  Kayla put her phone away. “It’s so lovely to see you again, Jace, after all this time. Where on earth have you been? Did you steal the TiTrav?”

  “I was unavoidably detained, and no, I did not steal the TiTrav.”

  “Ansel said you didn’t! He said there was no way it could be you, and that’s what I thought too. But all the evidence pointed in your direction, you’d vanished without trace, so had the TiTrav . . . In the end he accepted it.”

  “And so did you.”

  “Not at first, but after a year, when you hadn’t come back, it seemed . . . You still haven’t told me where you were. Tell me what happened, what’s going on.”

  Just perceptibly, Jace’s face had hardened during this exchange, and now he stood, his expression non-committal. “I don’t think that would be a good idea right now, either for you or me. And we have to go. Catch up with you later.”

  Floss took the hint and got to her feet again.

  Kayla’s eyes flicked in her direction, and back to Jace. She gave him an intimate smile. “Hmm . . . Just for you, Jace, I’ll pretend I arrived after you left. Perhaps Ansel will be more forthcoming when he gets back.”

  Jace picked up a leather bag from beside the sofa and walked towards the door. Floss grabbed her ill-gotten jacket and followed, giving a little friendly wave when she reached the threshold, hoping to annoy. Jace closed the door behind them.

  They walked to the lift, whose doors sighed open immediately. Jace said, “Ground,” and the lift doors closed. He took a deep breath, and got out Quinn’s phone to order a pod. Floss noticed his hands were shaking.

  “Will she tell anyone she’s seen us?”

  “She’ll want to talk to Quinn first.” He was about to pocket the phone, then he looked again, and brought up an email. His mouth straightened as he read it.

  “Are we going to see your friend now?”

  He finished with the phone and gave her a sideways look. “Once I’ve got some money.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Traces

  The moment the door closed behind Jace, Kayla emailed Quinn.

  Q, I’ve just met Jace in your apartment. He says you went out early. Is this true? What should I do? I’m worried about you. K.

  She waited for a few moments as if hoping for an immediate response, then slid open the terrace door, walked to the balustrade and looked over. Below, she saw Jace and that oddly dressed girl walk across the pavement as a pod pulled over. They got inside and it set off towards Silicon Roundabout. Kayla shivered in the chilly March air. Back in the apartment, she paced about, thinking furiously, repeatedly checking her phone. Something was not right. She hadn’t pressed Jace for answers because it had been clear from his demeanour he was not going to give any. If that tiresome girl hadn’t been with him, she could have persuaded him to talk. If only Ansel would ring. She tried his number again. He did not pick up.

  This was not that unusual; Ansel refused to be tied to his phone, and frequently went offline. But he was consistently punctual and reliable. He had arranged to meet her here, and if held up he would have let her know. Unless something had happened to him . . .

  Kayla went to his bedroom, more to keep herself occupied while she waited than to look for clues. Two pairs of new boots in boxes lay on the floor. Something else was different in there, and it took her a minute to work out what. The Jiajing dragon jar that stood on the table by the window was missing. She opened the right-hand bedside drawer, which was divided into sections to hold watches, dark glasses, cufflinks and cravat pins. There were fewer items than she remembered. Ansel had a weakness for expensive watches and owned several. None were in the drawer.

  Why had Jace been wearing Ansel’s clothes? What was in the bag he’d taken with him? And why was he so evasive about where he’d been? Alarm seized her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she got out her phone and connected and logged in to her IEMA computer. She went to Surveillance and retrieved Jace’s details. For a moment she hesitated. As head of the Timecrime Department, she was able to initiate tracking on a suspect without requesting permission first, but the trace would remain on record. She would effectively be alerting the system to Jace’s presence; betraying him, you could say. But he was a wanted man; if he was innocent he had nothing to fear. It was her duty. And considered from a personal viewpoint, Jace belonged to her past. Quinn was her present and, she hoped, her future. She wanted to marry him. She had never taken Jace seriously as a long-term prospect, fond though she’d been of him.

  Kayla initiated tracking, starting at 9.30 that morning. Nothing for a moment; then instead of lines of times, coordinates and addresses, the words NO DATA appeared on the screen. He’d taken out his chip, damning evidence of guilt. So why had he shown up again, in Quinn’s apartment? And where was Quinn?

  Seriously worried now, Kayla considered possible courses of action. She could have Jace arrested and questioned – except how would they find him? He must be using that girl’s chip and dataphone to pay for the pod, and Kayla had no way of discovering her identity, so no way of finding out where they were headed. If only Quinn were here. He would know what to do.

  She could always put his details into Surveillance . . .

  She remembered, after her promotion, Quinn demonstrating how to track a suspect by this system. They’d been lovers by then. He’d looked her in the eye afterwards, and said, “Don’t ever put a trace on me, or I’ll fire you.” He’d said it lightly, but she’d known he meant it; if she used the department’s tracking facility on Ansel, she’d lose both her job and him.

  It took Kayla several minutes’ hard thinking to make up her mind to go against Quinn’s wishes. She did not make the decision lightly – perhaps Jace’s reappearance had, in some way she could not imagine, made it necessary for him to rush off with no time to let her know? If she got it wrong he would not forgive her. She pictured his displeasure, his face closing against her, his eyes becoming cold, the end of her hopes and plans.

  But in the end she could bear the wait no longer. With trembling fingers she entered his details, starting the trace at 8 am that morning.

  Within seconds lines of print appeared one by one on the screen.

  0800: 51.527334, -0.088266 101 City Road EC1V 1JQ

  0815: 51.527334, -0.088266 101 City Road EC1V 1JQ

  0830: 51.527334, -0.088266 101 City Road EC1V 1JQ

  0845: 51.527334, -0.088266 101 City Road EC1V 1JQ

  He had been here this morning, then. That was reassuring. Jace had been telling her the truth. Where was Ansel now? Her eyes moved down the list.

  0900: 51.527334, -0.088266 101 City Road EC
1V 1JQ

  0915: 51.527334, -0.088266 101 City Road EC1V 1JQ

  0930: 51.527334, -0.088266 101 City Road EC1V 1JQ

  But – she’d arrived at 9.30, and Ansel hadn’t been here then. Kayla jumped to her feet and searched the bedroom, then ran from room to room, flinging open cupboards, looking under beds, checking anywhere big enough to hold a man. Quinn was not in the apartment. She sat down again, this time in the living room, and stared at the small screen.

  0945: 51.523796, -0.087451 38 City Road EC1Y 1AU

  Oh my God. Suddenly she understood. There was only one possible explanation of this: Jace had Ansel’s chip and phone. She set the trace interval to ten seconds, and watched the location change, as the pod Jace and the girl were in steadily moved away from her into the heart of the City.

  CHAPTER 16

  Loot

  From the spacious lobby they exited into what Floss realized, with a shock of recognition, was City Road. Here Jace stopped. A chilly wind blew and her toes felt icy; it was not ideal weather for sandals.

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “Our pod.”

  As he said this, one of the strange-looking cars, a small one, pulled in to the kerb beside them and its door slid open. They got in.

  “Hey, a driverless car! That is so cool . . .”

  Jace held Quinn’s phone up to the screen and spoke to the car. “The nearest pawnshop.”

  A dulcet female voice said, “Thank you, Ansel Quinn. Do you mean pawn, P-A-W-N, or porn, P-O-R-N?”

  “P-A-W-N.”

  “The closest pawnshop is Hershman and Sons Jewellers and Pawnbrokers, Copthall Avenue, zero point seven miles distance. Estimated time of arrival, 9.42 am. Your saved preference is the advertisement-free option. If this journey is approved, touch Yes on the screen. If not, touch No for other options.”

  Jace tapped Yes, and the car swivelled on the spot and moved smoothly and silently into the traffic. The interior was different from any vehicle Floss had been in, with two comfortable seats and big curving windows. The screen now showed a satnav-type map with the car moving towards their destination. Above the screen, a notice told passengers not to leave the pod until the green light came on. Another said:

  NO SMOKING

  Automatic fixed penalty charge £1,000

  If smoke is detected the pod will park and the doors will open

  Jace got out Quinn’s phone, looked at the caller ID, and put it away again. Floss took off one sandal at a time and rubbed some life back into her toes, watching the other pods weave courteously about the road, giving way to one another, pedestrians and cyclists. This must be cycling heaven.

  “So no flying cars yet?” she said. Jace shook his head. “Bummer. Does anyone still use ordinary cars?”

  “Motor club enthusiasts. There’s not many places you’re allowed to drive them these days. Petrol’s pricey, too, so you have to be a fanatic or seriously rich. But the roads are much safer, almost no accidents at all. Difficult to believe in your day people accepted the carnage.”

  “Yes.” Floss went quiet, staring out of the window, reluctant to discuss this topic. Goodness, there was Bunhill Fields . . . “We’re passing your old home! Or future home, depending on the way you look at it . . .”

  “Old home,” said Jace, firmly.

  The pod stopped beside Hershman & Sons’ respectable blue and gold façade, and thanked them for travelling before letting them out and shimmering off. Inside the shop Jace headed for a cubicle and sat opposite the young assistant. He reached into his bag and one by one laid the contents on the counter, finally adding the bag itself.

  First, two watches. “One Tag Heuer, and this is a Lange & Söhne.” A bottle of brandy. “Domaine de Joÿ.” Dark glasses. “These are Quantum Shades.” A blue and white jar. “Ming. And the bag’s Saint Laurent.”

  The young man stared for a moment at the haul, then excused himself to fetch Mr Hershman.

  “You stole these from Quinn’s flat?” Floss muttered out of the side of her mouth, disapprovingly.

  “It’s not as if he’ll be needing them any more,” said Jace. “And he owes me.”

  “Some might say he’d already paid.”

  “Suddenly he’s your best friend?”

  Floss’s retort was stillborn as a middle-aged man took his colleague’s place, wreathed in smiles. He examined each watch through a loupe, then moved on to the other items, taking his time, jotting notes on a pad. He gave Jace a shrewd look.

  “Some very nice pieces here. I must congratulate you on your taste. The Lange & Söhne is a fine watch, very fine. I can offer you a total . . .” he scanned his list, totting it up, “. . . of two hundred and thirty-seven thousand pounds.”

  Floss was careful to keep her face expressionless. Jace said, with the confidence engendered by selling goods that had cost him absolutely nothing, “I’m thinking more along the lines of three hundred thousand.”

  There followed a few minutes’ negotiation, with Mr Hershman endeavouring to conceal his excitement and Jace so laid back he was practically horizontal. In the end Jace agreed to sell the goods for £287,500. Asked for ID, he stood sideways by a device in the wall which flashed its approval.

  “Bank transfer . . . or would you prefer cash?”

  “Cash.”

  Mr Hershman disappeared for a minute, returning with neat bundles of used banknotes held together with rubber bands. Jace counted them, which took quite a time. Floss picked up a hundred-pound note and scrutinized it, fascinated. Though surprisingly similar to the fifty-pound notes of her own day, this bore an image that could only be a middle-aged and now crowned Prince William. Winston Churchill featured on the reverse with a World War II battle scene.

  Mr Hershman had noticed her inspecting the note. “You won’t find anything wrong,” he said. “We checked them most carefully after we printed them.”

  Floss laughed politely at his small joke. Jace stashed the cash and his receipt in various pockets, summoned another pod and they set off south of the river to see Ryker. Something was niggling Floss.

  “How did you give him an ID?”

  “I gave him Quinn’s.”

  “How?”

  “I cut out his chip after I killed him. Taped it to my arm this morning.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Careless

  Floss stared out of the windows, trying to pick out places she knew. London was still its old self, continually changing yet remaining in essence the same; a riotous mix of architectural styles. Victorian gems, jewel-like parks and stunning new buildings mingled with dreary blocks of flats and Toytown closes left over from the last century. Most roofs were made from matt black panels. Jace told her they were solar panels, and compulsory. Windows at any rate had improved; if some were still UPVC, at least they were better designed. And the streets looked wider, more open; Floss puzzled over this then suddenly realized there were no lines of cars parked along the kerbs.

  The people, too, looked different but the same. No one was more than a little overweight, for one thing; clearly science had solved the obesity epidemic. Fashion was eclectic, as in Floss’s own time, but men were more flashily dressed than they had been for the past three hundred years – much more than the women. They were peacocks, wandering around looking like Jane Austen heroes, or cast members of Pirates of the Caribbean. Women’s garments were plain; eclipse plumage, often elegant but definitely drab.

  They reached a run of scabby unloved streets with litter and potholes. The pod turned into a cul de sac beside the railway and bumped over patched cobbles. On the left was a high fence, on the right a series of railway arches, each walled off with a ramshackle combination of bricks and mortar, windows and corrugated iron, no two alike. Between a bike repair shop and a boxing club was the only arch whose purpose was not obvious. Above the door RYKER was painted in letters so ragged they might have been graffiti.

  Jace rang the bell. They heard a deep bark which got louder. The door opened and a man sto
od there, holding back by the collar a large German Shepherd who was straining to get at them. Ryker was lean and scruffy and wary, dressed in worn dun-coloured jacket and britches. A lower deck pirate, Floss thought instantly.

  He looked Jace over. “What do you want?”

  “Can we come in?”

  “What for?”

  “Private business.”

  “Give me your phones and walk through the scanner.”

  Jace handed him Quinn’s phone, and Floss gave him hers. Ryker did a double take at the 2014 Samsung, and put them both away in a safe with gold scrolling and a brass handle that would have been an antique in Floss’s time. They walked through the scanner, a sort of skeletal metal doorway, into a dim interior full of big machines and smelling of mice, lit here and there by naked bulbs. Work benches were littered with tools and electronic items in pieces. The floor was grimy concrete. In one corner stood a few salvaged kitchen units, in the other a door. A ladder led to a narrow platform made from scaffolding running along the back wall, on which stood a rumpled bed and a chest of drawers. The gold bits on Jace’s jacket glinted where the light caught them. To Floss his get-up looked more outlandish than ever in those utilitarian and shabby surroundings.

  Jace glanced around. “No one else here?”

  “No.” Ryker went to a workbench with four computer screens on it, pushed a decrepit typist’s chair towards Floss with unexpected civility, and lifted coils of wire off another for Jace. He sat on the edge of the bench and waited. The dog curled up in his nearby basket with a sigh; still watching them, though. Floss held out her hand for him to sniff, and fondled his ears; he accepted this attention with reserve.

  Jace said, “What would you charge to unlock a TiTrav, and unset the limiter?”

  After a pause, Ryker said, “That’s illegal.”

  “Don’t let’s have this again. Remember what you told me five years ago? It won’t be the first illegal thing you’ve done.”

  Ryker’s eyes were cool. “That was off the record. Just because I gave you a bit of information five years ago doesn’t mean we’re best mates. Back then, your lot had this whole place turned over for six hours, and you didn’t find a thing. IEMA’s got nothing on me.”