by Coleen Kwan
Glancing out the window, he saw they’d reached Asher’s street. The horse pulled up tiredly at the corner, wearied by the miles they’d travelled.
“It’s best we stop here and not outside the house,” Asher said as he stepped out and proffered a hand to Minerva. “I shall wait here in case you need me.”
Minerva stretched out a foot towards the pavement, but as she reached out, she swayed precariously as though the wind were too much. Darting forward, he caught her just before she collapsed to the ground.
“Minerva!” Her eyes were shut, filaments of hair whipping across her bleached skin. He shook her gently, reining in his agitation. “Speak to me, Minerva.”
With a grimace she peeled open glazed eyes. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” She rubbed her forehead and slowly righted herself. “This is the second time in as many days that I’ve had a fainting spell. Perhaps it is the London air which doesn’t agree with me.”
The north wind froze Asher’s heart. It wasn’t the London air which was causing Minerva to faint. The ramifications of what he so desperately needed to stop were rippling through time, altering all of history.
The pliability of time was beginning to obliterate all trace of Minerva.
Chapter Five
Cheeves, Asher’s butler, was too well-trained to betray any surprise at opening the door to Minerva once more. Before he could lead her into the front parlor as she knew he would, she said, “Is Mr. Quigley in his workshop?”
“I believe so, ma’am. If you will wait in the front parlor, I will go and call him.”
Minerva was heartily sick of the front parlor. It had witnessed too many depressing encounters between her and Asher. “No need.” She brushed past the startled butler before he could move. “I know the way to the workshop. I’ll call him myself.”
Ignoring the servant’s flustered protests, she hastened down the hall and out through a side door into the garden beyond the back of the house. Once, she’d sneaked out in the middle of the night to take a peek at Asher’s workshop. He’d caught her, of course, and made her feel as if she were spying on him. Now, she forced down the guilt that spurted up as she hurried down the garden path to the former stable block which had been converted into a spacious, well-equipped workshop.
The former wooden doors had been replaced by ones of solid iron, held together by stout rivets, and firmly shut. The windows, even though they were set high in the brick walls, were barred and boarded up. Altogether the whole building looked as if it had been turned into a fortress.
She rapped on the door, her knock echoing the quickening thump of her heart. Footsteps sounded from inside, and then one of the doors was wrenched open with a force indicating a certain impatience.
“What is it, Cheeves—”
The words halted. Minerva swallowed, suddenly mute with awe. She had accepted Asher’s wild tale of chronometrical travelling, but here staring her in the face was proof positive. This was not the Asher who’d just ridden through the park with her. This was not the Asher who’d held her hand so tenderly and called her “sweetling.” This man frowned at her, perplexed at her unconventional arrival, and if he was at all pleased to see her, he hid it very well.
“Good day, Asher,” she managed to get out, her voice husky with tension. “May I—may I come in for a while?”
Still frowning, he glanced past her, as if searching for any possible accomplices. “Of course,” he said rather reluctantly.
He had no jacket on, and when she entered the workshop, she realized why. It was exceedingly warm inside, the atmosphere like a tropical jungle despite the cavernous proportions of the building. An odd structure dominated the center of the workshop. It vaguely resembled a sedan chair, with an outer structure made of beaten copper studded with black metallic discs. Inside the sedan she caught a glimpse of a console bristling with buttons and levers. Thick cables attached to the sedan chair snaked across the floor, eventually connecting to an oversized electrical generator which sat quietly humming and emitting the odd crackle. Heat rolled off the generator, testament to Asher’s industry.
Worktables shoved to the sides were covered with coils, wires, tools and odd bits of metal. A desk in a corner held books and a few sheets of paper scribbled with numbers and calculations. The floor beneath the curious sedan chair was very black, and the air smelled faintly of charred, damp wood. Asher appeared as disarrayed as his workshop. His windswept hair rioted across his brow, his cheek was smudged, his hands grimed with dirt and his cravat entirely missing.
As if aware of her scrutiny, he picked up a rag and scrubbed at his hands. “As you can see, I’m not exactly dressed for visitors.”
Minerva pressed her lips together. “Is that all I am to you these days? A mere visitor?” The tinge of bitterness in her voice surprised her.
He glanced up, pausing in his cleaning. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to imply…” An awkward pause developed before he said, “I’ve had some time to think since your visit yesterday. About your mysterious letters…”
“Oh. Yes. Those. The ones from my secret beau, according to you.” She shouldn’t have baited him, but she couldn’t help it. That he could think her capable of such duplicity still rankled her.
He shook his head, pulling down the corners of his mouth. “That was silly of me,” he sheepishly confessed. “But I thought perhaps it was the work of someone who wanted to brew some mischief between us.”
“Who would want to do that?”
Tossing aside the rag, he rested hands on hips. “What about Dorian Monk? Does he not still hold a candle for you?”
“No, it’s not possible—”
“Isn’t it? I remember the look on your face when you thought he’d died. You do care for him, don’t you?”
“I’ve told you before, Dorian is only a friend…” Her voice trailed off as it struck her forcibly that Asher was jealous of poor Dorian Monk. Which meant that, in his own misguided way, he did still love her. A warm glow blossomed in her chest, spreading heat to every part of her body. But then she remembered the other Asher waiting for her in the carriage, and confusion clouded her emotions. How could she be in love with two men at the same time? Who was the real Asher?
She shook her head. “The letters don’t matter for the moment. I have something far more important to tell you.” She gestured towards the sedan chair contraption. “It has to do with that, your millennium machine.”
In an instant his demeanor switched to intense wariness. “What of it?”
“I know what it is you’re building here.” Moving forward, she pointed at the black discs studding the copper outer shell. “The promethium magnets, the electrical generator.” She paused to peer into the interior of the sedan chair. “The levers and dials inside. I know all about it.”
Without warning he pounced on her, squeezing her upper arm in a painful grip. “Who?” he demanded, his eyes blazing. “Who told you all this?”
She winced. “Asher, my arm.”
With a bitten-off curse he released her while still remaining a hair’s breadth away, so close she could feel the anger shimmering off him. “Don’t tell me you’re responsible for the fire?” he barked, his temper crackling like an electrical thunderstorm. “Do you know how much damage you caused? By some miracle the machine was only marginally impaired, but you destroyed all my calculations!” He gesticulated accusingly at the desk. “All my calculations! Weeks and weeks of mind-numbing work. I couldn’t contemplate re-doing it all. In the end I was forced to ask the help of—”
He broke off abruptly, his gaze veering away from her.
It was Minerva’s turn to glare at him. “I can guess why you’ve suddenly fallen silent. There’s no need to be coy. I know who called on you yesterday.”
His mouth gaped in disbelief. “Minerva, I—”
“You must have known who she was from the moment you first saw her.” Minerva’s indignation mounted. “Yet you were willing for me to remain in ignorance.”
“How did you—”
“I followed her after she left here yesterday, and I called on her.”
“What? Blast it!” Uttering a groan, Asher rolled his eyes skyward. “I never wanted you to meet Mrs. Nemo. She can only do you harm.”
Minerva’s ire stuttered. How strange that both Ashers held the same opinion of her mother. “Why do you meet with her then if you feel that way?”
His guarded expression returned. “I’m afraid I cannot discuss that with you.”
She huffed in exasperation. “In any case, that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because of that.” She pointed at the sedan chair contraption. “I know all about it. It’s not a perpetual motion machine, but something much more powerful. A chronometrical conveyance, isn’t that what you call it?”
Asher’s face blanched until he appeared carved from stone. “Who told you?”
The explosive tone triggered a flutter of alarm in her stomach. “I’ll tell you in a minute, but first, have you considered the potential dangers of your device? Have you thought about the havoc you might wreak on unsuspecting innocents if unscrupulous people travelled back in time and meddled with history? Because the person who told me all about your machine has. He has witnessed firsthand the outcome of your invention, and he’s charged me to give you this simple message—you must destroy your chronometrical conveyance, destroy it forever and never think about building it again.”
* * *
From his vantage point just outside the workshop door, the other Asher had a narrow but clear view of the two people inside. They were too engrossed with each other to notice him. Minerva was partially turned away from him, but it was the person to whom she was speaking who claimed all Asher’s attention.
He should not even be here. This was uncharted territory, and he had no idea what laws of the universe he might be breaking by looking at another version of himself. But Minerva’s fainting spell just outside the house had alarmed him more than he could admit. So ten minutes after she’d entered the house, he’d followed. Cheeves had been unable to conceal his bafflement at seeing his apparent master at the door, but Asher had brushed past him as if nothing were untoward, and the man hadn’t protested.
Now, the present Asher, white-faced at Minerva’s message, let out a bark of humorless laughter. “Destroy my own work? Surely you jest.”
“I’m deadly serious,” Minerva replied.
“As am I. This is the greatest of all my inventions. Possibly it is the greatest invention of all time.” Asher’s eyes began to blaze as he swept his arm towards the chronometrical conveyance. “Can you imagine what man could do with such a device? The possibilities are endless, mind-boggling!”
Asher of the future suppressed a crushing groan. Such hubris. How it stung to recognize that familiar trait in him. He wanted to stride over to the fellow, grab him by his shirt front and shake some sense into him. Oh, he’d been so arrogant, so foolish.
Minerva was looking dismayed. “I know how upsetting this must be for you. You’re such a brilliant inventor, but—but you’ll invent other things.”
“Nothing remotely as remarkable as this.” Asher harrumphed in disgust. “And you want me to destroy it on a mere whim? On the say-so of some mysterious stranger?”
“Not a stranger at all.” Minerva moved towards him. “On the contrary, someone who is very familiar with you.” She paused, pulled herself upright. “This message comes from you. From Asher Quigley. Only, he is from the future. Eight months in the future, to be precise.”
Asher stared at her, his nostrils flaring. “Now you are surely jesting.”
“Why is it so impossible to believe? You’re hell-bent on completing your contraption. Is it so unbelievable that you should get the thing to work sometime in the future and use it to travel back here?”
“I don’t deny that, but I cannot think of one reason why I would want to destroy my own invention.” He began to prowl around Minerva. “I smell a trap here. Someone is using you to get to me, convincing you of this outlandish tale. I never thought you a gullible person, but clearly I’m wrong.”
“I’m no one’s cat’s paw,” Minerva snapped. “If you saw this Asher you would know I’m telling the truth.”
“So why hasn’t he shown himself to me?”
“Because—because he’s afraid of—of the cosmic implications.”
“Cosmic implications?”
The man was too busy scoffing to notice, but from his position just outside the door, Asher saw Minerva shut her eyes. Wavering, she leaned against a worktable for support, white as a sheet. His first instinct was to leap to her aid. He took a step forward, but then froze as a frightening occurrence unfolded. The pallor in Minerva’s face appeared to spread across her entire figure. It was as though a fog were enveloping her, obliterating her. Spots of her dress danced in front of his vision. He could almost see through her, see through to the floor and the workbench behind her.
His innards constricted. Minerva was disappearing before his very eyes. If he didn’t do something she would vanish.
He threw open the door and charged into the workshop. “Asher!”
The other man spun round. His eyes stretched. The color drained from his face. “You? But it can’t—”
Asher of the future strode forward. “Yes, it is I. To avoid confusion, I will address you as Asher, and you may call me Quigley.”
“My God, my God.” Asher rubbed his eyes. “I don’t believe it.”
“Pinch me if you don’t believe me.”
“So…it works? It really works?”
“Yes, it works.” Losing patience, he turned to Minerva. “You are not well.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. Her fearful gaze jumped between the two men. “But what of the cosmic implications?”
“To hell with the cosmic implications.” Cupping her elbow, he found her more substantial than he’d feared, and a modicum of relief filtered back. “This idiot here would never have been satisfied had I not revealed myself.”
“Who’re you calling an idiot?” Asher jutted out his jaw.
Quigley moved forward, placing himself in front of Minerva as if to protect her. “Do you wish to take it further?”
The other Asher glowered then moved towards him with deliberate strides, closer and closer until their breaths mingled. Quigley held his ground while his double scrutinized every inch of him.
“Quigley, is it?”
“Do I pass muster?”
Identical green eyes glared back at him. “Tell me about the journey. Did you experience any pain, any faintness or nausea?”
“Some, yes, but it was fleeting.”
“And you have all your senses? You can taste food, smell odors?”
“Everything. I experience hunger, tiredness, pain. I sleep, dream, remember. Everything functions.”
Asher nodded, excitement mounting in his expression. “And how did you arrive at the correct voltages to calibrate the chronometrical conveyance?”
Asher of the future sighed. “By my own calculations, of course.”
“What about Klaus Schick?”
“I had to consult him on one or two algorithms, of course. He’s an expert in Riemannian space.”
“But his analytical machine?”
“I didn’t use it.”
“But it would have taken you months to complete and verify the figures.”
“I didn’t want to fraternize with Schick more than was necessary, and besides, I saw no reason to rush. Without correctly calibrating the machine I risked a great unknown.”
“Precisely! You could have been out by hundreds or thousands of years.” Asher’s face flushed, and his eyes glittered. “Tell me the figures, Quigley. Tell me what electrical voltages I need to calibrate the conveyance.”
Quigley stepped back. “No.”
“No?” The other man gaped at him. “You’re not going to tell me?” His voice rose in utter disbelief.
“No. And I will never t
ell you because it’s too dangerous. Asher, listen to me. You must destroy this monstrosity. You must destroy it and all your blueprints and notes, and you must promise never to rebuild it or even speak of it to anyone. This machine can only bring ruin. You must believe me and act.”
His conviction appeared to make an impression on Asher. Frowning, the other man contemplated the apparatus he’d labored over so much, but when he turned back his jaw was set in stubborn lines.
“Why must I believe you? What terrible thing will happen if I refuse your request?”
“History will be altered, lives will be destroyed.” He paused, knowing he could not go further, not with Minerva just behind him. “I am you, Asher. Surely you trust yourself?”
But doubt still lurked in the other man as he shifted away towards his precious invention. He brushed his hand slowly over the promethium magnets dotting the outer shell now correctly aligned, and the expression on his face made Quigley’s heart sink.
“What if I took one journey in it, just one, and then destroyed it?”
“No, you cannot do that.”
“Why not? What’s the harm in one journey?”
Asher of the future sighed. “Because it would be a one-way journey,” he said wearily.
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple really. Your—our—invention is not quite complete. Rather than a chronometrical conveyance, it should be called a chronometrical catapult.”
Comprehension quickly flooded Asher’s face. “Ah, I see.”
From behind him, Minerva spoke up, “By a catapult, do you mean…?”
Slowly Quigley turned to face her. “Yes, it means I have been lobbed back into the past with no means of returning to the future. Otherwise, there would have been two contraptions here instead of just one.”
Dismay clouded her eyes. “But that means you’re trapped here, unless…unless you use this machine here to catapult you back to the future.”
“No, never. It doesn’t matter what happens to me. All I care about is making sure this infernal device is forever destroyed.”
