Termination

by Deborah Chester

  One cautious corner of his brain suggested he should have burned it, but Leon wasn’t going to waste time hunting for it on the dirty floor.

  He ran to the door and tugged at it, but it didn’t open. Leon’s breath froze in his lungs. He struggled with it like a madman before it opened. Neglecting to close it behind him, Leon bolted through Messer Tibo’s laboratory. The mutilated servant still lay unconscious on the floor. Leon knew instinctively that little time had passed. He was capable of compressing time, of somehow concentrating his thoughts and actions so that he could go at a faster speed than others. When he did that, time seemed almost to stand still. Yet he could not sustain it long, and it was always draining.

  He felt exhausted now and ill. Clammy perspiration beaded his forehead. Worse even than his physical misery was the feeling that he’d failed. He suspected Messer Tibo somehow knew of his prowling and was laughing.

  Leon reached the door and fumbled it open.

  Just in time he managed to remember to not gallop down the stairs like a fool, but to go as quietly as he’d come.

  The dwarf still snored on his stool. He mumbled and stirred when Leon tiptoed by, but he didn’t awaken. Leon stumbled and staggered through the bending passageway, the floor heaving up and down beneath his unsteady feet, the walls shifting back and forth, swaying until he thought his nausea would get the better of him. Gritting his teeth, Leon somehow managed to get through it.

  Then it was all behind him, and he crouched safely on the servants’ stair, panting and shivering, his finery sweat-stained and bedraggled now, much of his confidence shaken.

  The contessa and her palazzo had lost their appeal. Leon told himself that as soon as he got a grip on himself he would get out of here tonight.

  “Messer Leon?” said a voice.

  Leon scrambled up, his heart pounding much too fast, but it was only a young page in household livery.

  “Messer Leon?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  The boy swept him a bow. “Madama la contessa has sent for you. I will take you to her.”

  Leon swallowed and had the sensation of being trapped. He didn’t want credit now for having taken care of the Doge’s daughter. He wished he had never agreed to do it, had never set foot in this place.

  The boy glanced over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, it is now that she wishes to see you.” The boy frowned. “No one keeps the contessa waiting.”

  “But I—”

  “You will come now,” the boy said. “It is her command.”

  Leon brushed off his clothes and struggled to pull himself together as he followed the page downstairs. The iron key was still in his pocket. It seemed to be on fire in there, burning him like a brand through the cloth. He dared not be caught with it, and as they walked outside through the loggia, he tossed it quickly in the bushes.

  The page stopped and looked around. “What was that?”

  “Nothing. A bird perhaps,” Leon said impatiently. “Let’s go.”

  The guests had all departed. The music and laughter were gone, leaving only silent moonlight in their wake. Leon reentered the house and passed up the magnificent public staircase. It was a baroque masterpiece with bronze banisters cast to resemble writhing snakes. Here and there one of the serpent heads had a human face carved into it, eerie and tormented. At the top of the stairs, large marble griffins held enameled lanterns in their beaks.

  A maidservant, yawning, her hair half fallen from its pins, was already scrubbing the steps, cleaning away the tracks of countless footsteps and the debris of dropped flowers and crushed trinkets.

  They walked past her up to the broad gallery. It was richly appointed with elaborate tapestries and wall frescoes by Titian. Here merchants, courtiers, suppliants, and friends gathered during the day when the contessa held audience. She was a woman of high standing, a member of one of the oldest Venetian families, possessing immense wealth and several extremely profitable trade agreements with the Orient and northern Europe. Her husband had died long ago, leaving her childless, and although the contessa was far from old there was much speculation about whether she would leave everything to her nephew Claudio or choose another heir.

  A few hours ago all this was of great interest to Leon. Now he could care less.

  Nervousness prickled up his spine. He still felt ill, and the closer they walked to the tall gilded doors at the end of the gallery, the more he wanted to run in the opposite direction.

  Laughter ghosted in his ears, and he stopped with a frown. He looked around but he and the page were the only people in sight.

  “Is something wrong? Messer Leon?”

  Leon shook his head, telling himself he was imagining things again. Only he didn’t have much imagination, never had.

  “You look ill.”

  Leon wished the boy would shut up. “I’m not.”

  “It is easy to fear madama la contessa,” said the page. “She is very important.”

  Leon swallowed, feeling another quiver go through him. He clutched his stomach a moment, slowing down. It had to be Noel causing some of this. He always knew when Noel was in trouble, or when Noel was hurt. He expected to suffer a little during Noel’s torture and execution. He just didn’t want to deal with it now, not while he had the overwhelming feeling of walking into a trap.

  Why hadn’t he waited? Why hadn’t he been patient? He should have known the contessa wouldn’t be content to hear the outcome of his mission from someone else. She would want the details in person. She would have questions. He could have held off riffling through her chambers, much less Messer Tibo’s, until later.

  The page knocked quietly upon the doors, waited a moment, then swung open one of them. “You are to go inside alone,” he whispered.

  Leon hesitated. He had the strangest feeling that this was his last chance to get out, to get away. If he went inside, he would never escape.

  Run, whispered a voice inside his head.

  But Leon narrowed his eyes. This nervousness was Noel’s fault, he told himself. Noel was in prison, afraid, probably screaming for his life and begging for mercy while they stretched him on the rack. Those feelings were being communicated to Leon, nothing more. He hadn’t been caught. No one knew what he’d been up to. He needn’t be afraid here.

  Drawing himself erect, Leon sauntered into the audience hall as though he owned it.

  Chapter 5

  Down in the catacombs below the dungeons, footsteps echoed in the tunnel, approaching fast. Voices rose and fell in urgency. Trapped, Noel looked around in desperation for a way out.

  All he saw were the graves cut into the walls. How many centuries had the bones lain here undisturbed? What did it matter? This was no time to be asking historical research questions. He was in trouble, and if he didn’t figure out something very quickly he was going to be dragged back to the torture chamber.

  If only he’d taken the other fork…but second-guessing himself was a waste of time.

  Think!

  His mind was blank. He kept trying to push away the rising sense of panic. If he let it overwhelm him he would be lost. He pressed himself against the wall and listened a moment. His pursuers were almost here. Soon they would be able to see his torchlight. He must snuff it out.

  But to hide down here, below sea level, among the bones, in the darkness…Noel’s stomach twisted.

  There was, after all, only one place to hide. All the dithering in the world wasn’t going to change it, or improve it, or make it easier to confront.

  Gritting his teeth, Noel ran across the space to the far wall and climbed up to look in one of the holes. It had old gothic writing scratched into the wall and someone had sketched a crude portrait that was so faded the face seemed to have been eaten away by the rats Noel could hear in the distance. Only the eyes of the picture remained vivid, as though the stones themselves gazed at him, ancient and blank, a little astonished at this invasion.

  “Push ah
ead!” called a voice. “I think I see something.”

  Noel scrambled into the hole, clattering over dusty skeletons that shifted and collapsed beneath him. He knocked the end of his torch against the wall, snuffing it, then extinguished the embers by rolling the torch in the dirt.

  The dust of untold centuries fogged up around him. Trying not to sneeze, he squirmed his way to the rear of the hole and curled up next to some ribs that collapsed with a gentle tinkle of sound. Noel pressed his face down so it wouldn’t reflect the searchers’ torchlight and waited in the moldy darkness, hardly daring to breathe. His heart was a knot in his throat.

  Ruddy torchlight flared through the chamber. Light and shadow whirled past the mouth of his hiding place. In this shallow little tomb, he was exposed, if they bothered to look.

  “Maledizione!” swore a gruff voice. “I told you he wouldn’t be stupid enough to come this way. He headed for the canal.”

  “He is clever. Wait and search.”

  Harsh laughter echoed off the walls. “Where do you expect to find him? Hiding among the bones?”

  “It is what I would do.”

  Listening to this argument, Noel mouthed silent curses to himself. With all his might he willed them to go.

  “It will take only a moment to look about.”

  “I tell you even a desperate man does not hide among the dead.”

  “We will look a little,” said the stubborn voice. “It is better to be sure.”

  “Bah,” grumbled his companion but they started searching.

  Noel could see their shadows, bent and grotesque, cast across the ceiling of the chamber. Listening, he could tell they were checking the lowest tier of graves.

  Don’t let them climb up here, he prayed.

  Sweating, he bit his lip. The head of a femur was gouging into his back. His cheek lay pressed to a skull. His fingers gripped a rib harder and harder like a weapon as the footsteps came slowly closer.

  “There are too many,” complained the gruff voice. “I have checked this side. Hurry. We should help the others. They will say we are lazy and did nothing. They will take all the credit for catching the sorcerer.”

  “Do you really want to catch a sorcerer?” asked his companion. “What if he casts a spell? What if he makes our teeth fall out and we go blind? It is better to search carefully and be sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “Sure of missing the capture, stupido.”

  “Ah. I begin to understand.”

  There was sly laughter. Noel grimaced to himself in renewed frustration. He wanted to jump out of concealment and yell boo. But they would only bring the others.

  “Per Bacco,” muttered the gruff voice just below Noel’s hiding place. “Are you going to climb as well? I tell you we are wasting time. If you want to rest here for a few minutes, I do not mind. But let us not break our necks crawling in and out of all these holes, eh?”

  “Bene,” said his companion reluctantly. There came the clapping sound of palms being dusted off. “We shall let these bones lie in peace.”

  “Then we go?”

  “We go.”

  Again the torchlight shifted, making the shadows move. He could hear them murmuring to each other, the sound of their voices fading away. Noel eased out his breath, hardly daring to hope. They would return to their commander and report they had searched the catacombs without success. Eventually the searchers would believe he’d escaped into the canal and they would clear the tunnels. As soon as everything settled down, Noel could creep back the way he’d come and take the other passageway to freedom.

  A strange sound whispered through the catacombs. It sounded like wind whistling through treetops. A feeling of pressure came from nowhere, oppressive in the way of an approaching thunderstorm, when the barometric pressure drops and all grows still, heavy, and expectant. Odd prickles ran up Noel’s arms as though an electrical charge surged through him. His hair stood on end, rippling in the buildup of static electricity.

  He frowned, rising to his knees. What in blazes was happening now?

  Outside he heard one of the guards call out in alarm.

  “Noelll…” whispered the eerie wind. It rustled and blew, swirling about the chamber and stirring up the dust. “Noooo-ellll…”

  Noel shook his head as though to clear it. Impossible. The wind could not be calling his name.

  “Diamine!” cried one of the guards. “In the name of God, sene vado. Sene vado!”

  The other man was praying in a rapid jabber.

  The wind blew harder, swirling in past Noel and coating him with dust. He squinted and held his hand in front of his face for protection.

  “Noel! Noel! Respond. Noel!”

  Astonishment filled Noel. That was definitely a voice, clear and impossible to misunderstand. Forgetting caution, he crawled to the mouth of his hiding place and looked out.

  The two guards were on their knees, one weeping with fear, the other still calling out in supplication. Their torch lay forgotten on the ground, half gone out, smoking and sputtering. A pale light illuminated the chamber, emanating from a transparent ghostly figure floating in midair.

  Noel stared at the apparition in astonishment. He knew that craggy bearded face. He knew that tall, burly form. It was Trojan, fellow historian and his best friend. Trojan, who had been caught in a time distortion accident and driven insane. Trojan, the friend Noel thought he’d never see again.

  His heart caught in his throat. “Troj?” he said.

  The apparition turned, floating gently, light still streaming from it as though a doorway had been opened to another universe, which in a sense it had.

  “Noel?” Trojan called.

  “Yes! I’m here,” Noel said eagerly. He scrambled down to the ground in a cloud of dust.

  The guards saw him and screamed. One crossed himself; the other scrambled toward the wall.

  “Look what he commands. Per Dio, we are doomed!”

  Their panicked blathering didn’t matter. Noel hurried toward Trojan, his hands outstretched. “I’m here. I’m here!”

  Trojan turned slowly and faced him at last. He held up his palm. “Stop. No closer. The balance is fragile.”

  The light streaming from him now fell on Noel. He could feel it on his face, strangely hot, although no warmth radiated into the chamber. Noel’s hair still stood on end from the electricity, and he could hear a crackling, hissing, charged sound beneath the rush and whisper of the wind.

  Trojan, he saw, was a hologram being projected by some miracle along the time stream to him. The transmission began to fail, breaking up and re-forming several times in rapid succession. He heard static, and backed up hastily. At once the transmission quality improved.

  “…better,” Trojan was saying. “Not much time. Pay attention.”

  Noel glanced at the guards and gestured. “Get out!” he shouted. “Get out now!”

  They scrambled to their feet and fled, half stumbling over each other.

  Noel turned back to his friend. “Trojan, what’s happened? How did they cure you? Did they send you back according to my theory of how the distortion—”

  “No time,” Trojan interrupted. “Listen. The time stream is damaged. We have lost contact with you.”

  “It’s my LOC,” said Noel, overcome that they had managed to track him and beam this message to him. “It was damaged when the time portal shut.” He yanked up his sleeve. The computer strapped to his wrist should have been activated and glowing, pulsing in synchronization with Trojan’s transmission. But it remained dark. “See?”

  “Visual is not linked to this projection,” Trojan said, sounding more like a machine than the friend Noel knew so well. With a frown Noel wondered if the technicians were just using Trojan’s form as the optimum means of communicating with him. Static combed through Trojan’s voice momentarily. “Voice contact only. There is not much time.”

  “Is the portal still shut?”

  “Yes.”

  “How a
re you getting through?”

  “We are sending blind beam broadcast through the fading tachyon transmission trail of the time stream. Bruthe can track the old trails for a certain duration before they fade.”

  “Good old Bruthe,” Noel said in gratitude. “I thought I was stuck here forever. Can the portal be reopened?”

  Trojan abruptly broke up and vanished.

  Noel took a step forward. “Trojan!” he shouted. “Trojan!”

  With a loud pop, Trojan returned in a different location.

  Noel turned to face him again in relief. “Pal, you scared me. Don’t wink out on me like that. Can you get me back? Is there any hope the loop can be reestablished?”

  Trojan’s image rippled constantly as though it could not quite hold together. The volume of static increased. “Much damage. Portal is…have you got access to…”

  Trojan’s voice faded and for an instant Noel could hear sounds from Laboratory 14, technicians talking hurriedly to each other, voices he knew and recognized. Homesickness swept through him. For a moment he felt unbearably close to all of them. His eyes stung, and he knew an overwhelming longing to go back.

  “Hologram integrity falling below…boost…stand by,” Bruthe’s voice said clearly.

  Noel wasn’t sure if the technician was talking to him or not. He could see right through Trojan’s ghostly form and he kept hoping that if he looked hard enough he could see some of the others. But there was only the light shining over him from the future, reaching all the way to this dark chamber of the past. Noel had never felt so helpless or so alone.

  “Bruthe,” he said, unable to hide his desperation. “Trojan, Bruthe, anyone, can you get me home? Can you reactivate the portal? Can you tell me how to get my LOC working? I’m blind here. I don’t even know what year this is. I have no way of knowing how events are supposed to be.”

  Trojan’s sturdy form rippled. His voice returned suddenly, making Noel start. “…six versions under way,” he said.

  Noel had no clue as to what he was talking about. “I missed something. You’ve got gaps in transmission. Repeat, please.”

  “…can’t resume transmission once trail is lost. Without LOC, transmission beam is not confirmed.”