The Trouble With Time

by Lexi Revellian

  Floss could see Jace was torn; on the one hand, it went against everything he and IEMA stood for; he’d turned down a similar offer from Quinn with contempt. On the other hand, Ryker wasn’t going to leave the TiTrav sitting in a drawer, and if Jace agreed he’d have the chance to limit irresponsible time travel. Plus right now he was short on other options.

  Ryker said, “I’d want you to keep it, so if I get searched I’m clean. I’d have to work out a way of contacting you. Dead letter box, maybe.”

  Floss thought this a promising idea. She said to Jace, “That would make it much easier for you to hide from the authorities.”

  Jace was eyeing Ryker narrowly. “This may sound a dumb question, most people could do with more money, but we have to be talking about millions to hire a TiTrav. You don’t strike me as the type to be hankering after a mansion and a yacht. Why are you prepared to risk your freedom for money?”

  Ryker’s manner became less friendly, his voice cool. “That’s my business.”

  “If we’re going to be partners you have to trust me. If someone’s blackmailing you I need to know.”

  “It’s not that! Like you said, I could do with more money, who couldn’t.” He took a swig of beer. Jace waited. After a moment Ryker muttered, “It’s for Pete’s daughter. Saffy McGuire. I told you five years ago, he was going to use that TiTrav to buy her a little place of her own and pay for university. I thought I could do it instead. Seems only right.”

  This pleased Floss. She said, “That’s nice of you.”

  Ryker seemed embarrassed by her approval. “I might buy myself a new bigger workshop too,” he said defensively. “Instead of renting.” He turned back to Jace. “Interested?”

  “I’ll give it a go. Can you get me a new chip?”

  Ryker nodded. “No problem. You can start the job now by taking Floss home, then come back here and we’ll sort out the logistics.”

  Floss got Jace to drop her in a side street near King’s Cross. He waited while she rang Zoë in Cambridge and asked if she could crash on her floor for a week. This settled, they each paused before parting forever. Jace said, “Well. It was nice knowing you.”

  “I hope everything works out. Do be careful.”

  Jace nodded. “You too.” His fingers moved to the buttons. He glanced around to check no one was looking in their direction. Floss added quickly, “If you ever find yourself in London, my time, look me up.”

  “I will. Good luck,” he said, and vanished.

  Floss walked inside the station and found the ticket office, waiting in line behind a couple of other travellers. She’d probably never see Jace again, never find out what happened to him. And this was good; her life was back to normal, like she wanted, and she had no reason to feel this almost physical sense of loss. A moment later someone else joined the queue immediately behind her. An absurd conviction that it was Jace standing there waiting to surprise her made her heart beat faster. Don’t be ridiculous. She turned around.

  Quinn smiled at her in a matter-of-fact way as if they had only just parted, having arranged to meet here. The lacerations on his face were nearly healed. In his time it had evidently been a few weeks since the fight. His outfit looked only a little outré; a short black jacket with a military cut over a plain white shirt, black britches and boots. He was clearly trying to blend in.

  How did he get here? Has he got the TiTrav off Jace? Oh God, is Jace okay . . . Floss put her hands behind her in case he was planning to grab her again, though surely he wouldn’t with all these people around . . . She scowled to hide her fear. “What do you want?”

  Her hostility appeared to amuse him. He said pleasantly, “I want to buy you a drink and talk to you.”

  “We have nothing to talk about.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Leaving the manifest untruth of that to one side for the moment, I’m sure you’d like to hear what I have to say. I came to give you a friendly warning.”

  The people in front of her had moved on, tickets purchased. The clerk said, “Where to?” Floss had no intention of revealing her destination to Quinn. If he knew where she was going, there would be no point going there. And if Jace was in prison or dead she wanted to know.

  “Sorry, it’s okay,” she said to the ticket man, and turned away from the counter. “All right, then,” she said grudgingly to Quinn. “Just don’t try anything.”

  Quinn led her across the concourse and into a wine bar, Floss staying a step behind in order to keep an eye on him, her anxiety about Jace growing. He crossed the room to a small table in the corner, his height, assurance, and unusual clothes drawing glances from the other customers. The waiter appeared with a menu, which Quinn scanned rapidly.

  “Champagne. A bottle of the Laurent Perrier cuvée rosé.”

  The waiter left. What on earth will that cost? Sidetracked for a moment, she hissed, “I’m not going to pay for this!”

  “When I offer to buy a young woman a drink, I do not expect her to pay.”

  “But –”

  Indulgently, he removed an American Express card from his pocket, and showed it to her before putting it back. “I came prepared.”

  The waiter returned with assorted canapés and the champagne in a misted silver bucket. He peeled off deep pink foil, eased out the cork and poured the wine. Floss started to pick up her glass, saw how much her hand was trembling, and put it down again. She had to know. She turned towards Quinn and took his left hand in her left hand – for a split second he misunderstood and looked surprised and gratified – then pulled up his cuff with her right so she could see his TiTrav. Floss stared at its unfamiliar blackness and newness. She let his hand drop again, breathing deeply, reassured.

  Quinn was looking at her shrewdly. “It’s not the one Jace had. I see you are relieved.” Floss did not answer. She drank some champagne instead, hardly registering how delicious it was. Quinn continued, “We haven’t apprehended him yet. Maybe we won’t, though knowing him as I do, it would not astonish me if he did something rash and made our job easy. But that’s not what I came to discuss. Nor did I come to tell you, though I suspect you will be interested if not altogether surprised, that there’s been a swerve in the timeline. Humanity’s future is secure, at least for the next couple of centuries. The disastrous mutation of the contraceptive virus has been averted.”

  Floss was pleased by this news, which meant her plan had worked. Her father’s forethought, with her assistance, had saved humanity; it was a sort of lasting memorial to him. She glowed, and wished she could tell Jace. He’d probably find out . . .

  Quinn was watching her. “I note you don’t ask me how this happened. Of course, a side effect of this good news is that all traces of the old future London have been wiped.”

  Quinn paused briefly while she digested the significance of this. The evidence of Jace’s five years there had gone. No wonder Quinn was looking smug. He refilled her glass. “Now to the real reason for my visit. I feel responsible for you. I like to think we became . . . friends while you were in my time. You’re in trouble. I want to help if I can.”

  “That’s really not necessary. I’m fine.”

  “So you say.” He focused intently on her, gazing into her eyes. “On Monday – my time – a team will be coming to pick you up. They’ll arrive outside Zoë Parker’s flat in Cambridge, at half past midnight tonight.”

  “How did you know I was going to Zoë’s?”

  “I made it my business to know.”

  Creepy. “You came to warn me not to be there?”

  “Yes,” Quinn said simply.

  “Why?”

  He sat back in his chair. “Really Floss, you can’t be as naïve as all that. Why do you think?”

  “Because they might believe what I tell them.”

  He considered, then nodded as if awarding her half a point. “There’s that, too,” he said.

  CHAPTER 42

  The meaning of life

  Floss put down her champagne glass and rang Zoë
; apologized, thanked her, and told her she’d had a change of plan. As she ended the call, an idea came to her. Raising the phone she took a photo of Quinn. She studied the result, holding it to her left, out of his reach. “Hmm. A nice clear shot of the Chief of IEMA Intelligence sitting in a 2015 bar, drinking champagne and committing timecrime. Might come in handy some day, you never know.”

  She went to replace the phone in her pocket, and Quinn’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. His eyes were cold, staring into hers; she hadn’t seen them like that since the day she first met him, when he’d picked her up from her own time.

  Floss didn’t care. She returned his stare. “You’re not going to intimidate me, so don’t bother trying. And I wouldn’t advise attempting to steal my phone in a bar full of people.”

  After a moment Quinn released her and she put the phone away. “You’re right, it wouldn’t be wise and it’s not necessary either.” He leaned back, once more easy and relaxed. “If you think I can’t talk my way out of a little thing like that, you don’t know me very well.”

  Floss glanced at her watch. “I must be off. Thanks for the drink.”

  Without more ado she got up and headed for the door. As she opened it, she turned and saw Quinn still sitting at the table, watching her as he lifted the bottle to pour himself another glass of champagne.

  Floss walked towards the Tube entrance, suddenly bone weary. It had been a long day; after a normal day’s work there had been the trip to see her old boss, then the disastrous visit to Kayla’s and the fight between Jace and Quinn, then a brief break at Pizza Express, then on her way to Cambridge the unwelcome encounter with Quinn. Longing just to get home and go to bed, she walked quickly down the escalator. Someone behind her was in a hurry too, boots tapping on the metal treads, keeping pace with her. Had Quinn followed her after all? Most likely it was some random stranger running late. Still, she was glad to reach the bottom of the escalator and merge with the crowd. She moved fast, slipping between the other passengers making for the platform. A train was waiting, doors open, and she hopped on. The doors clunked shut, the train departed. She got off at the next station, Highbury and Islington. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a tall figure in a flashy black jacket, silver buttons catching the light, emerge from one carriage along. For a moment she thought it was Quinn, but it wasn’t. She stood still among the milling crowd.

  “Jace! What are you doing here?”

  Monday, June 13th 2050

  The studio lights were hot, and Quinn’s skin felt strange under the foundation and powder the makeup girl had applied. In the darkness beyond the table and chairs, three cameramen stood by their equipment. The huge screen behind the set was showing a clip of Floss, her face pale and unsmiling, surrounded by police who escorted her past the crowd, up the steps and into the Victorian splendour of the Royal Courts of Justice.

  The screen changed to a livestream panorama of London, and the presenter turned to him. They’d had a brief word before the interview started, and Nandita Rowe had remained steely, brisk and professional in spite of Quinn’s efforts to charm her. He surmised from this she planned to give him a hard time. After all, it was what she was renowned for.

  She spoke to camera. “You’ll remember that a month ago, the International Event Modification Authority got permission from the World Government to lift Florence Dryden from 2015, for reasons that were not disclosed to the public. She subsequently went missing, and was arrested yesterday in her own time on suspicion of timecrime. With me this evening to discuss this unusual – I may say unprecedented – case is Chief of Intelligence at IEMA, Ansel Quinn. Mr Quinn, first of all, you brought this young woman here. Wasn’t it a little careless of you to lose her?”

  “In order not to ‘lose’ her, as you put it, we’d have had to watch her twenty-four seven, or incarcerate her in a TT-proof cell. We chose to treat her like the innocent human being she was.”

  “But she turned out not to be quite so innocent, didn’t she? She’s now in prison awaiting trial for timecrime. Are you going to admit you got it wrong?”

  Quinn smiled. “Before I deal with that question, Nandita, I’d like to say something about Miss Dryden. She’s had an incredibly raw deal, for which I bear much of the responsibility. We at IEMA mistakenly believed her to be the catalyst for impending worldwide disaster, and it turned out we were wrong; we took her from her own time and once we’d done that, abiding by WG rules we were not able to take her back. She lost her home, her family and friends. One can understand that, offered the opportunity to return to her own time, she took it.”

  Nandita changed tack. “Florence Dryden is making the extraordinary allegation that you yourself possess an illegal TiTrav and are guilty of timecrime.”

  Quinn nodded. “After what she has been through, you can’t blame her for being confused and upset.” Nandita leaned forwards, nostrils flaring, but before she could press him, Quinn added, as if in passing, “Let me be clear, there is no truth in those allegations. Miss Dryden is mistaken.” He smiled. “My concern is to eliminate timecrime, not participate in it.”

  “How do you explain Florence Dryden’s making such a strange mistake?”

  “I can’t explain – I can only surmise. As you know, she’s been seen in company with Jace Carnady, who is wanted for the theft of a TiTrav five years ago. I’m afraid he has been imposing on her. Let me say again, Miss Dryden is, I am certain, blameless in this matter, and I’m very much hoping for an acquittal should the case come to trial. Meanwhile I’m lobbying for her release without charge.”

  “There’s little doubt she time travelled – you yourself admit to seeing her do it.”

  “Indeed I did. The Head of Timecrime, Kayla Hartley-Hunter, and I both witnessed her and Jace Carnady using a TiTrav.”

  “Then it’s difficult to see how you can argue –”

  “My contention is that the circumstances are exceptional. It’s quite unfair to prosecute her for breaking a law which was not in existence in her own time.”

  The interview continued. Quinn was amused by Nandita’s increasingly aggressive attempts to rile him. He enjoyed making the points he had come there to make in spite of her, and watching her mounting frustration as he remained calm and even humorous under fire. He bore her no ill will for trying to trip him. She was only doing her job. Once the interview was over and she thanked him icily, he very nearly asked her out to dinner.

  Monday, June 13th 2050, evening

  Ryker sat back in his new executive ergonomic leather and chrome swivel chair, adjusted its angle to his precise requirements, put his feet up on the desk and took the lids off the various parts of his Chinese meal. Curtis dozed on the floor beside him. Outside, wind howled and rain beat against the windows. Ryker opened a beer and brought up the BBC to find something to watch. There was Nandita Rowe, done up to the nines, grilling some luckless bugger. He bit into a spring roll and smiled as he remembered that guy on Gentle Arts calling her a Doberdoodle. Then the screen changed to the luckless bugger, and he saw it was Quinn, and he was talking about Floss, and she had been arrested.

  Ryker sat up, bits of chicken falling out of his spring roll. He’d helped her steal the TiTrav, and now she was in bad trouble because of it. They’d have to rescue her, and that would be impossible now she was under arrest. When not escorted by police, time criminals were kept in cells with floor-to-ceiling metal rods every three feet, some with random jutting loops of steel. TiTravs were programmed not to time into places where there was insufficient clear space. Sufficient space was defined as 6 by 6 by 8 feet, and no oncoming obstructions such as a person, a drone or a truck. Okay, Ryker could adjust the safety parameters on the TiTrav, but he wouldn’t want to chance materializing and finding a metal rod through his body. Better to go back and pick her up before IEMA did.

  He made himself go on eating though his appetite had gone – no sense in wasting food – and continued watching. What was Quinn playing at, pretending to be keen to get Floss rel
eased? He must be up to something . . . Nandita Rowe wound up the interview, and the programme changed to an item about humanoid robotics which, under normal circumstances, would have interested Ryker. He turned it off, put the cartons and the rest of the food in the bin, shrugged into his jacket and picked up his keys. Curtis joined him, tail wagging.

  “It’s your lucky day, Curtis. An extra walk.”

  They went into the pouring rain to summon Jace.

  Almost hidden by dripping shrubbery was a missing bar in the railings, a convenient entrance to the park after hours. No one was out in this dismal weather – not that anyone round here cared what you did, but Ryker was habitually cautious. He ducked unobtrusively through the gap, followed by Curtis. They made their way to an overgrown statue of a dog, a memorial to someone’s long-dead pet. Ryker crouched round the back and moved a decaying branch. At the base of the statue’s plinth was a deep crack in the stone. Ryker drew out a diary, its covers buckling with the damp, turned to that day’s date, and wrote ‘9.20 pm’ on it before replacing the diary and the branch. He made his way back to the workshop, where Jace would now be waiting for him.

  Saturday, 7th May 2015

  Jace said abruptly, “You have to come with me.” He was hardly looking at Floss; he was scanning the faces of the crowd, many of whom were giving him covert glances as they passed. “IEMA’s going to take you back to face trial, and I don’t know when they’ll pick you up.”