Termination

by Deborah Chester

  Termination

  Time Trap: Book Six

  Deborah Chester

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1995 by Deborah Chester

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition January 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-62681-585-8

  More from Deborah Chester

  Time Trap Series

  Time Trap

  Showdown

  Pieces of Eight

  Restoration

  Turncoat

  Termination

  Ruby Throne Series

  Reign of Shadows

  Shadow War

  Realm of Light

  Anthi Series

  The Children of Anthi

  Requiem for Anthi

  The Omcri Matrix

  The Goda War

  Chapter 1

  If he had to materialize in the wrong place and the wrong time—thanks to the erratic placement of a malfunctioning time computer—Noel Kedran would have preferred to have at least landed on dry ground.

  Instead, after hurtling through the time stream in the backlash of a shut time portal, Noel materialized with wrenching force into reality and found himself abruptly floating in midair with a black, star-strewn sky overhead and darkness around him.

  Shocked and disoriented, he blinked for a moment. I can fly, he thought.

  But even as that dazed thought passed through his mind, his wits cleared and other sensory data began filtering through his brain. He registered painful points of pressure against his back, shoulders, and legs…the soft rustling sigh of leaves in the evening breeze…a bird’s disturbed chirping.

  Frowning, Noel raised his head and felt his body shift. A leaf brushed his cheek, and he realized that he wasn’t floating and he wasn’t flying. He was suspended high in the top of a tree.

  Consternation filled him just as his weight finally came into sync with gravity. Feeling himself slip, he reached out with an instinctive jerk. The movement ruined his precarious balance. Flailing desperately only made it worse. He fell through twig-sized branches too fragile to grip, and hit larger limbs that caught his weight for mere seconds before snapping and letting him fall again. The farther he fell the greater his impetus until he was hurtling down, branches snapping and cracking all around him. Everything he grabbed either broke in his hand or slipped from his grasp. Bark and twigs rained down in his wake, getting in his face and eyes. Leaves slapped him. Thin limbs whipped him. His hands bled from scratches; his clothes caught and ripped.

  It was all happening too fast to comprehend, yet beyond the crashing disaster of his descent he imagined he heard music—thin reedy tunes supplemented by throbbing drums. He heard music, laughter, and voices.

  Where? On the ground?

  He crashed through a string of bobbing paper lanterns, heard a woman scream and a man’s laughter ring out. Flying sparks and burning bits of paper surrounded him, then he cleared the last limbs of the tree. Expecting to hit the unyielding ground next, he tensed himself for the impact that would break all the bones in his body.

  Instead he hit black water with a slap that stung his back mercilessly. Noel sank like a stone beneath the surface.

  In the darkness the water was a cold, intangible thing he fought blindly. Dangerous currents tugged at him, and he feared being caught and tumbled to his death beneath the surface.

  Kicking with all his might, he finally managed to shoot to the surface. His head cleared the water and he dragged in a desperate breath that was half air and half water.

  The taste of the stuff was unspeakably foul. Spitting and sputtering, he began treading water while he sought to get his bearings.

  Far overhead, lights and music swirled by without a care for his predicament. He could hear laughter and voices chattering incomprehensibly, a constant stream of sound that escaped any instant identification.

  That alone worried him. He knew numerous languages, and his translator implant should pick up the rest, but right now very little made sense. He couldn’t help but fear that he’d materialized in the wrong dimension or that the distortion that had closed the time portal forever had thrown him out of sync with this world—sort of half in and half out.

  He slapped the water with his hand. He could feel it. It was damned cold. An unpleasant stink of fish, algae, and unspeakable things rose off the water in a damp, choking miasma. Well, if he could smell, see, feel, taste, and hear, he couldn’t be out of sync. His fingers and toes were in all the right places. As near as he could tell he was intact, and he was grateful for that.

  But right now there was drowning to avoid. Nor did he want to freeze to death. Paddling, he pushed to keep his head above the water. A craft whispered by, silent save for the quiet splash of an oar and the love murmurs of its occupants, entwined together in silhouette against the darkness. The wake of the narrow boat sent Noel bobbing up and down.

  His shoulder bumped into something hard. Turning, he gripped the algae-slick stones of a bridge support. The water current grew stronger as it swirled around the bridge pylons, and he thrashed around in an effort to get a better grip on the stones.

  Some kind of parade or procession was crossing the bridge he clung to. People carried torches, and the light reflected in the black water with twinkling bursts of orange color. The music was strange, very archaic and unfamiliar. It had a wild, almost abandoned rhythm, and the revelry kept pace with it. He could hear shouts and quick cries of mock outrage, followed by laughter.

  Shivering, Noel abandoned the idea of yelling to get someone’s attention. No one could hear him in this din. Wedging his shoulder against the pylon, he continued his self-check. Did he know who he was? Yes. Did he know where he’d been prior to this materialization? Yes, revolutionary America. Did he remember his transfer into the time stream? Yes, it had involved a struggle against Qwip and the creatures from another dimension. He’d escaped, and he’d seen the time portal close against any possible invasion.

  The memory awakened sadness in Noel. He supposed he had saved the Institute but he had trapped himself once and for all in the past. The portal had shut, and his link with the twenty-sixth century—home—had been severed permanently. He had no guarantee the technicians could ever reopen it. Wherever he was now, he would have to stay.

  “Andiamo!” called a man’s voice.

  Startled, Noel glanced around. Across the canal illuminated by torchlight stood a figure wearing patterned hose and a long doublet. His face was concealed by a grotesque mask featuring an immense beak of a nose. He gestured insistently to Noel.

  “You! Hurry!” he said.

  Noel finally recognized the language being spoken as Italian. Not modern, of course, but close enough.

  “Do you intend to drown out there? Swim to me!” called the man.

  He had a point. Gratefully Noel launched himself away from the pylon and swam across the canal. It was slow going, for his limbs were growing dangerously numb from the cold and his clothes and shoes hampered his progress. The current threatened to sweep him away, but he kept kicking until his outstretched fingers finally grazed the slippery surface of the stone landing.

  The man bent over him. “Presto! Hurry, hurr
y!”

  Clinging there, breathless, Noel peered up at him and said in the best Italian he could muster, “Give a hand.”

  The stranger knelt and gripped the shoulder of his coat, hauling Noel onto the landing like a beached whale. Noel lay there a moment, water streaming from his clothes, and gasped for breath.

  His rescuer backed away and stood watching him. Dashing the water from his face, Noel slung his dripping hair out of his eyes and grinned.

  “Grazie,” he said. “I was—”

  “Fool!” snarled the man. “Get up!”

  Noel held up his hand. “Give me time. I’m one part numb and two parts frozen.”

  “Up!” insisted the Italian. “Get to your feet at once!”

  Noel didn’t understand what the problem was, but the man’s sudden hostility worried him a little. He pushed himself to his hands and knees, shivering. Travel could sometimes be upsetting to a person’s nervous system. Intense hunger usually bothered Noel after he materialized, but he knew there could be other side effects. Right now he felt bruised and tired as though he’d been run through a wringer, which, considering the rough passage through the time stream, he had been. Falling out of a tree hadn’t helped either.

  “Coward!” said the Italian. “Will you die on your knees?”

  “Hey,” Noel said with rising irritation. “I feel like I just climbed out of an open sewer. Give me a moment, will you?”

  The man left the shadows and came toward him. At close quarters his clothing looked expensive, trimmed in satin and velvet. A round cap sat tilted on his blond curls. The mask he wore grinned hugely, but his eyes glittered with hostility through the slits. Whatever had motivated his call to Noel, it wasn’t from a friendly desire to help.

  Cautious, Noel struggled to his feet. The canal was at his back. He felt trapped, with nowhere to go.

  “I’m fine now,” he said with false cheeriness. “Thanks for helping me out of—”

  “Bah!” Without warning the Italian gripped Noel by his coat lapels and slung him against a wall. “Blackguard! You will regret this night’s villainy.”

  Alarmed, Noel raised his hands. “Wait. I think there’s been a mistake.”

  “No mistake,” said his attacker, pulling out an ornate dagger. The needle-thin blade shone long and sharp in the torchlight. “Tonight you die!”

  He swung as he spoke, but Noel ducked. The dagger gouged into the wall behind him, striking sparks, and Noel twisted from the man’s grip. The Italian slashed at him again. Noel dodged and felt the blade rip through his coat, missing his hide by a scant hairbreadth. Noel retaliated with a kick that sent the dagger spinning into the shadows. With a cry the Italian plunged after it.

  Pushing himself away from the wall, Noel took his chance and ran.

  His intention was to lose himself in the darkness, but just as he reached the edge of the torchlight, he found the narrow street ahead of him blocked by a gang of men. They approached in grim silence. Some wore masks; some did not. Attired in rich doublets, short breeches, and hose, all were armed with daggers and rapiers. Two burly servant types brought up the rear with torches and clubs.

  Noel halted and backed up. A glance over his shoulder told him his attacker had recovered his dagger and was closing in. Noel was trapped from both sides. The walls rose above him, with not a window below the second story, and even then it was barred and shuttered.

  “Now I’ve got you,” breathed Noel’s initial attacker. He rushed at Noel again.

  “Aldo!” shouted one of the other men. “Wait—”

  “Consign your black soul to God,” said Aldo, unheeding. His shoulder drove into Noel, slamming him hard against the wall. He raised his dagger.

  Noel gripped his wrist and hung on with all his might, pushing against this madman who inexplicably wanted to kill him.

  He didn’t have much strength left, but his resistance was enough to save him until the others surrounded him and dragged Aldo off.

  A broad-shouldered man in a crimson silk doublet kept Aldo from throwing himself at Noel again. “Aldo!” he said sharply. “Stop it! Have you taken leave of your senses? Kill him and there is no hope for her.”

  Aldo stopped and ripped off his mask. His face was young and handsome beneath light curly hair. His eyes were filled with anguish, and tear tracks glistened on his cheeks. He bowed his head a moment before the other man’s scolding, then crushed the mask in his hands.

  “She is dead,” he moaned. “This creature has killed her.”

  “Silenzio!” said the other man sharply. “She is not dead.”

  Aldo’s head jerked up. Hope filled his face, then he scowled. “You lie, Vicente. I saw her swoon. I held her in my arms. There was no breath in her body. There was no beating of her heart. He killed her, and I am going to kill him!”

  Again he rushed at Noel, and again they held him back. Aldo fought against them, weeping. Vicente, older with a sprinkling of gray at his temples, stood watching with a grim expression.

  “Take him home,” he said to the men. “Watch him closely until he has mastered his grief.”

  They dragged Aldo away, but as he passed Noel, he turned and spat at Noel’s face. “I would my spittle had poison in it, sorcerer!” he cried. “I would I could kill you as you have killed my dear sister! A thousand curses on you! May you rot in hell forever!”

  He staggered on, still weeping and yelling curses. Noel wiped his cheek with a feeling of puzzlement. He had been rescued from Aldo’s maniacal rage, but he was still surrounded by the remainder of the men, and Vicente continued to scowl at him.

  Cautiously Noel met Vicente’s gaze. “There has been a mistake—”

  One of the men struck him. “Silence! You have no leave to speak.”

  Reeling back, Noel caught his balance and straightened, nursing his aching jaw with his hand.

  “I warn you, sorcerer,” Vicente said, his eyes flashing fire, “we are protected by drams of holy water in our pockets and the cross of the Savior around our necks. We have been blessed by Father Andreas, and we invoke the holy protection of Saint Mark against you. Speak no spells at us, for we cannot be harmed by them.”

  “I’m not a sorcerer,” Noel said, keeping a wary eye on the daggers held ready to stab him. “I’m a traveler. I entered the city tonight. There’s been a mistake. I’m not the man you seek.”

  A brief frown touched Vicente’s eyes, then his expression smoothed into something cold and stern. This, Noel realized, was a formidable man, a dangerous man. Vicente said, “Lies will not save you. All of us witnessed your attack upon Lady Francesca in her own home. Now you will come and recant the spell.”

  “No—”

  Vicente raised his hand, but Noel refused to be silenced.

  “It’s a mistake. I wasn’t in her house tonight. I don’t know the woman. If you will just let me explain—”

  The men stirred angrily. Several brandished their weapons. “Let me finish this,” said one.

  Vicente stopped him. In the torchlight his rich doublet shimmered like burgundy in a glass. He was broad-shouldered, strong, a man of power in the physical prime of life. Unlike the others, he controlled his emotions. And there was no doubt of his intelligence. Noel believed that he could reason with this man, if he had enough time.

  “Please, hear me,” Noel urged. “You say you saw me harm her—”

  One of the men hit him in the back, making him stagger. “Speak of the Lady Francesca with respect, dog.”

  Noel held off the urge to hit back and focused his appeal at Vicente. “Was I dressed in these clothes?” As he spoke, he held out his arms and turned around. Even torn and soaked with water, his eighteenth-century garb of long coat, knee breeches, stockings, and sturdy leather shoes had to look alien to these men. What century am I in? he wondered. All this while he had been observing them closely to assimilate data. From their clothes alone he guessed the Renaissance. His spirits sank. His knowledge of that era was sketchy. Until he could access his LOC
for information…no. He cut off his own thoughts. Closure of the time portal had cut the direct link between the main computers and his LOC. His equipment could not operate. He was truly on his own. And from what he’d heard so far, it sounded as though his evil twin Leon had also survived the chaos in the time stream to arrive here too. Already Leon was causing trouble, and already Noel was paying for it.

  “My clothes,” he repeated, trying to keep reason, not desperation, in his voice. “Look at them.”

  “Careful,” warned a man. “He means to put a spell on us.”

  Several backed up, and one pointed a silver cross at Noel like a weapon.

  “I mean you no harm,” Noel said hastily. “I can cast no spells. My twin brother must be the man you seek. His name is Leon—”

  “Yes, and well we know it,” Vicente said, a frown carved even deeper between his brows. “Any man can change one costume for another. Your tale is air, spouted to waste time.”

  “If I’ve been running for my life, chased by your friend Aldo,” Noel argued, “when would I change clothes? I tell you I am not your man.”

  “And I would like you better were you to face your crime,” Vicente said angrily. “This mewing for mercy is a coward’s way.”

  One of the men hit Noel. “Attacking a sweet and gentle lady is beyond cowardice.”

  “Nay, it is intrigue of the most vile,” said another. “The enemies of the Doge will stop at nothing—”

  “My name is Noel. I’m a traveler from a far land, newly arrived in—in Venice this night,” Noel said hurriedly as they closed in. “If my duplicate has done harm to anyone, I want to help, but I am not—”

  “You will help,” Vicente said harshly. “You will return to the Ducal Palace and undo this spell you have cast over the Doge’s daughter.”

  Two of the men gripped Noel by the arms.

  “Wait!” he said. “I tell you I can’t—”

  The point of Vicente’s dagger appeared from nowhere and pressed against Noel’s throat. The metal was cold and very, very sharp. Noel felt all the breath die in his lungs. He froze, his protests silenced.