Termination

by Deborah Chester

  “Vicente, Vicente,” the Doge said in soft reproof, and Vicente averted his head in the first display of distress he’d shown all evening. The dagger at Noel’s side dug in, and Noel felt a sharp prick and the hot trickle of blood on his skin.

  He bit the inside of his mouth to keep quiet, fearing the wrong reaction from him might make any or all of them snap. There was fear in this hot, crowded room, not just his own, but from every other person present. Fear and ignorance made a lethal combination. It was time to defuse it.

  “Messers,” Noel said respectfully, “I will do my best but I must have quiet. These things cannot work among witnesses. Earlier this evening was different,” he said sternly as Aldo protested again. “It was different. You understand.”

  They nodded as though they did.

  “But he cannot be left entirely alone with her,” said the chief doctor. “I shall stay and observe.”

  “So you can learn more secrets of the black arts?” Noel retorted.

  The Doge looked suspiciously at his physician, who, finding his eagerness had betrayed him, turned red and flustered.

  “Domino,” he began, holding out his hands, “I beg you to understand that I—”

  “Go. All of you, go,” the Doge said.

  The doctors filed out first, muttering in their beards and exchanging glances.

  The priest stood his ground. “She needs God for protection. I will guard her against the darkness.”

  “It’s the darkness now that she needs,” Vicente snapped.

  The priest looked shocked. “Blasphemy! You cannot fight evil with evil, signore. You will cause more harm—”

  “And have your prayers broken the spell? Have you exorcised any demons which hold her in this unnatural sleep?” Vicente asked.

  “Gently, gently, my friend,” reproved the Doge, laying a hand on his arm. “To offend the church is not our purpose tonight. Ladies, you will depart.”

  The women hesitated, fluttered a bit, and hurried out, crossing themselves as they passed Noel.

  He thought about making a face at them, but refrained. He already had one tiny hole in his side. He didn’t want a bigger one.

  “Aldo,” the Doge said, “you and Vicente will guard her. The priest and I have much to discuss. I leave you all in God’s hands.”

  The priest looked stubborn, but the Doge ushered him out. The door closed, and Aldo, Noel, and Vicente all looked at one another in silence.

  With a sigh, Vicente released Noel’s arm and stepped back. His mouth worked a moment, then he gestured toward the bed.

  No one said anything. The fires hissed and sang in the braziers. Holding his breath, Noel picked up the incense pot and put it outside. Closing the door again, he shot both men a defiant glance but they remained silent.

  Aldo retreated to a corner and crossed his arms, glaring murderously. Vicente started to sheathe his dagger, noticed the small bloodstain on the tip, and looked up at Noel. There was nothing in his dark eyes but implacable purpose. After a moment he took a cloth from his pocket and cleaned the dagger.

  Chilled, Noel approached the bed.

  It was big enough for three adults to sleep in comfortably. A fur lay folded neatly at the foot. There was a heavy velvet comforter embroidered with the family crest in gold also folded down. Lady Francesca lay on her back on top of fine linen sheets. She was quite young, perhaps sixteen, plump in accordance with the fashion of the time, and beautiful. Her face was sweet and gentle. Long lashes rested upon her cheeks. Her golden hair had been arranged across her pillow in a luxurious spill of curls. Pale, tapered hands adorned with pearl and diamond rings lay folded across her abdomen. She wore a gown of delicate lace and silk, as pale as her skin, studded with hundreds of tiny seed pearls and cut very low across the bodice.

  Staring at her, Noel was struck by her youth and vulnerability. He felt a surge of protectiveness, and was bitterly disappointed in Leon for harming her. Why had his duplicate attacked her? There could be any number of reasons, all of them equally despicable and unjustified.

  Without thinking, Noel reached out and touched one of her locks of hair. It sprang silkily to curl about his finger. “Sleeping beauty,” he murmured.

  A hand like iron clamped upon his shoulder and jerked him back. “This is no time for poetry,” Vicente said in his ear.

  Noel struggled free, his alarm changing into annoyance. “Back off,” he said hotly. “I can’t concentrate if you’re going to grab me like that.”

  Vicente glared at him. “I have warned you—”

  “Yeah, you warned me. Tortures unimaginable and all the rest.”

  Across the room Aldo reached for his knife.

  “Just keep the weapons out of sight, okay?” Noel said angrily. “I know you’ve got them. I don’t need them waved in my face every few seconds. The message is clear. I cure her or I get stabbed. Now back off and let me see what I can do. But don’t interrupt again.”

  Aldo came forward. “I’ve had enough from this insolent dog. Don’t let him touch her!”

  “Silence!” Vicente said. “He is right. We must leave him alone to work. The physician warned us there could be difficulties if the spell is not handled correctly.”

  “He will kill her! That is what he came to do. We are giving her life to him!”

  Noel moved away from her bedside. “Then kill me now and get it over with. I didn’t come to harm this girl. I’ve told you I’m not the man who put the spell on her in the first place. You won’t believe that. Now I’m telling you that I won’t harm her. I guess you can’t believe that either. We’re wasting time.”

  Vicente smacked Aldo in the chest. “Calm yourself. Go back to the corner and stand watch, but quietly. We must do as he says.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he is her only hope,” Vicente said.

  The fire went out of Aldo. He nodded dispiritedly. “God help her,” he whispered and returned to his place.

  Vicente went to the prie-dieu and knelt at it briefly. Rising, he swung around to glance at Noel, then stood by the door.

  “We shall not interrupt you again,” he said.

  “No matter what I do?” Noel asked.

  Aldo stirred but said nothing.

  “No matter what you do,” Vicente said.

  “And if I need something?”

  “It will be supplied.” Vicente’s gaze met his. “Anything you ask for, you may have. Any help you need, I will give you.”

  Noel nodded. “That’s all I ask.”

  “Just cure her,” Vicente said. “That is all I ask.”

  Chapter 3

  In the heat, Noel’s damp clothes began to dry. He removed his coat and draped it across a chest inlaid with stamped leather and mother-of-pearl. Dragging a chair over to Lady Francesca’s bedside, he dropped wearily into it and pulled up his left sleeve. There, half hidden beneath his torn and dirty lace ruffles, he saw his LOC.

  It had failed to utilize its molecular shift capacity to assume a disguise in keeping with this century’s primitive level of technology. It looked slightly smoky inside, dead. No doubt its sophisticated fiber-optic circuit nets were fried, its invaluable data banks fused. Its function had been threefold: to provide him with translation and information support, to record events that transpired around him for later analysis at the Time Institute, and to serve as an emergency communications link to the Institute. While it lacked artificial intelligence, it had something of a personality designed to complement his own. The LOC had been isomorphic, responding only to his commands. He had been conditioned never to remove it while traveling. While he’d been trapped in time, the LOC had remained his one piece of home, his hope. Now it was dead.

  He couldn’t stop staring at it, couldn’t stop believing that maybe against all appearances it contained some final, dim spark of life.

  “LOC,” he said in a hoarse voice, “activate.”

  No light flashed in acknowledgment. The bracelet did not grow warm against his wrist. The L
OC did not hum to life. It did not speak.

  Bleak disappointment choked Noel. Blinking hard, he thumped the LOC with his finger.

  “Come on, LOC,” he whispered. “I really need you this time.”

  As he spoke he glanced over his shoulder, but apparently Vicente expected him to be muttering strange and arcane words, for the Venetian continued to stare at the wall.

  This was probably the one and only time in Noel’s career as a historian that he could blatantly operate his LOC without corrupting men of another century, and the blasted thing wouldn’t work.

  “LOC, activate,” he repeated more urgently. “Run diagnostic codes and scan. I need medical information.”

  Nothing.

  With a sigh he leaned over and ran his fingers through his hair. Well, what did he honestly expect? The time portal was shut, for God’s sake. Why couldn’t he get that through his head? He was well and truly on his own here, and he might as well stop hoping to depend on a trick up his sleeve.

  Pulling his shirt ruffles over the LOC, Noel set himself to do something. When he picked up Lady Francesca’s arm and put his fingers on her wrist, Aldo stirred. Noel looked up warily, but although the boy glared at him he did nothing. Letting out a sigh, Noel concentrated on finding the girl’s pulse.

  Frowning, he counted the beats of her heart, finding them very regular but much too slow. He cupped his hand over her lips and could not feel any breath. Glancing around the room, he saw a hand mirror and positioned it by her mouth. A trace of condensation appeared, so slight it evaporated almost instantly. Peeling back one of her eyelids, he took a candle and moved it close in an effort to get a pupil response. Again, there was almost nothing.

  Noel replaced the mirror and candle, then paced for a few minutes. She was in some kind of deep coma, truly so close to the edge of death it was frightening. He had no medical training beyond the obligatory first-aid sort. With the LOC he could have run a thorough diagnosis and developed several alternatives for treatment. Without the LOC’s help, he might as well throw ashes on her and do a witch-doctor dance for all the good it would do. Noel stopped and pulled at his tense neck muscles. He had never felt so helpless.

  The LOC…a glimmer of an idea came to him. Quickly he unfastened the bracelet and began running his fingernail along the inside curve of the casing. Although the tiny computer was designed to work automatically, it did have a few manual controls. It also constantly monitored his physical condition and was equipped to administer a tiny injection if his vital signs dropped below a certain level. Because normal travels through time were of such short duration, the medical charge was nominal and could operate only once or twice. Noel couldn’t remember if his LOC’s charge was exhausted or not; considering what he’d been through while trapped in the time loop, it probably was. Still, he went on exploring with his fingernail, trying to find the hairline crack where the LOC opened for servicing.

  There…He located the few short centimeters of its length and worked to pry it open. The Institute technicians had special tools for this, and LOCs were designed to resist tampering. Sweating, Noel looked around and briefly considered smashing the LOC with the heavy chalice sitting on the windowsill, but then he felt something give.

  He pried harder with his fingernail, and the miniature door popped open. Grinning to himself, Noel shook out into his palm two tiny vials and the injector. Both vials looked empty, but when he held the injector up to the candlelight, he could see a minute trace of amber-colored liquid inside the clear point of the needle.

  “Bingo,” he said aloud. He turned to find Vicente watching him intently. “I need some brandy or wine.”

  Vicente opened the door and snapped his fingers for a servant. While he issued a low-voiced order, Aldo sneered at Noel. “Oh, yes, sample my father’s cellars while you posture and sweat. Take care with your potions, stregone.”

  “Aldo,” Vicente said in reproof. He opened the door to admit a servant with a tray of two bottles and several glasses. The servant put down the tray, bowed, and scuttled out.

  Vicente started pouring drinks for all of them. Noel, however, tore a corner off the linen sheet, walked over and took the bottle from Vicente’s hand, and dampened the cloth with crimson wine. Handing the bottle back to Vicente, he turned his back on the man’s astonishment and bent over Lady Francesca.

  Picking up her arm, he thumped it for a vein, swabbed a spot, and pushed in the injector. It was risky, not to mention unsanitary. Whether he was giving her a sedative or a stimulant, he did not know. Whether there was enough to have any effect, he would soon find out. He prayed for a stimulant, since any sedation would probably kill her.

  The needle was tiny, designed to leave a nearly traceless pinprick. When the whole mechanism was in working order, the shot was so rapid it could barely be felt. But Noel left the needle in place for several seconds, hoping gravity would draw the drug into her bloodstream. When he pulled it out, a drop of blood welled up on her milky skin. He swabbed it again with the wine-soaked cloth, telling himself that if she’d survived to adulthood in this germ-infested culture she must have a tough immune system.

  He waited a few moments to let the stuff work if it was going to, then he bent over her. “Francesca,” he said softly in her ear. “Francesca, can you hear me? I know you are very sleepy, but you must open your eyes. Open your eyes, Francesca. It’s very important that you wake up and talk to us. Isn’t there something you want to tell us? Open your eyes, Francesca. Vicente is here. Aldo is here. Your father is here. Open your eyes and talk to us, Francesca.”

  She stirred ever so slightly, turning her head a fraction on the pillow.

  Encouraged, Noel patted her cheek gently. “That’s good! Wake up, Francesca. Wake up. Open your eyes and talk to us. There is something important you have to say. Come up to the light and open your eyes.”

  She whimpered.

  Vicente joined Noel but did not interrupt. He pressed close to Noel’s shoulder, his breathing rapid with hope.

  “That’s a good girl,” Noel urged her. “You’re doing fine. Wake up now, Francesca. Come on. Open those big beautiful eyes and look at us. Wake up and talk to us, Francesca. Wake up!”

  She whimpered again and tried to shift away from his grasp. He shook her again, gently but firmly.

  “I know you’re sleepy, but you’re missing the party. Remember the party, Francesca? It’s for you. All the guests are here in your honor. You’ve been dancing, Francesca. Don’t you want to dance some more? Wake up and talk to us. We miss you, Francesca. Wake up. That’s right. Open your eyes. Wake up and open your eyes.”

  “She is coming back to us,” Vicente said in a voice of wonder.

  Francesca tossed her head from side to side, still resisting consciousness. Her right hand flailed up, and Vicente caught it between his palms as a man might hold a dove.

  “My darling, my sweetness,” he said, “please wake up. Come back to us. Come back to me.”

  She moaned and sobbed, then opened her eyes. Her gaze was unfocused. She started to slip back, but Noel shook her ruthlessly.

  “Come on!” he said. “Wake all the way up. Wake up, Francesca. I know you can.”

  Her eyes were a luminous violet. She blinked slowly, not cognizant yet.

  Vicente started to speak, but Noel stopped him. “Wait,” he said in warning. “Give her time. She’s had a great shock. Don’t rush her now.”

  Aldo hovered at the other side of the wide bed. “She is alive,” he said in joy, beaming through unabashed tears. “She is with us again. God is merciful.”

  Vicente crossed himself.

  Still watching the girl as she blinked, frowned, and rubbed her eyes, Noel relaxed with a grin. Maybe he should have been a doctor.

  She tried to sit up, and Vicente solicitously assisted her. “Easy, my darling. Aldo, run and tell your father.”

  Aldo burst from the room, calling out excitedly.

  “Francesca, cara,” Vicente said, smoothing the hair back fr
om her face. “How you frightened us.”

  She said nothing. Noel frowned at her with fresh concern. She still looked vacant. Just because she was awake didn’t mean she was cured.

  “Step back,” he said to Vicente. “Let me talk to her.”

  Vicente reluctantly moved aside but he kept his hand protectively on her shoulder.

  Noel bent over her. “Francesca?” he said. “Lady Francesca, can you hear me?” He held up two fingers before her face. “How many fingers do you see?”

  Vicente glared at him. “What nonsense is this?”

  “Please,” Noel said to him. “Let me do this. How many fingers, signorina? Count them, please.”

  She said nothing.

  Noel and Vicente exchanged glances, and consternation flashed across Vicente’s face. “Dio!” he whispered.

  Excited voices sounded on the other side of the door.

  “Keep them out,” Noel said.

  Vicente reached the door just in time to stop the crowd from pushing inside. “Wait. Wait, please,” he said.

  Noel gripped Francesca’s pointed little chin and forced her to gaze directly at him. He held up his Angers again. “How many fingers, Francesca? Two fingers? Do you see two fingers?”

  “Two fingers,” she said dully. Her blue eyes were like a doll’s, wide and wholly lacking in animation.

  Desperate, Noel slapped her. “Francesca!” he said sharply. “Snap out of it! Tell me your name.”

  Tears filled her eyes, and she slowly put her hand to her cheek where the imprint of his fingers reddened her skin.

  “Tell me your name!”

  “Fran—”

  “Come on! Tell me your name!”

  “Frances—Francesca,” she whispered. She shut her eyes, and a shudder ran through her. She began to cry soundlessly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she rocked herself back and forth. “God help me, what was it? What was it? That darkness? That evil? It was so cold…so horrible. It touched me. It made me evil too. It wanted…” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.