“Ah.”
“For your kindness to me, I will not harm you at present,” said Quintus, “but if Canis is your friend, then I must regard you as an enemy and we must part.”
“He is not my friend,” said Littlewood, gloomily. “He was. Or I thought he was, once. But our friendship ended several months ago. I am not your enemy. And Khan is not here.”
Quintus’s expression dulled. Exhaling heavily, he placed his sword once again out of sight behind his substantial back.
It was time for Littlewood to make a few inquiries.
“Quintus, I want to ask you something.”
“Ask what you will.”
“Where are you from?”
Quintus frowned as if considering whether to answer. At last he spoke. “Roma.”
“Oh dear.” Littlewood ran a hand through his hair. “Rome. Good heavens. It’s true. Does Father Joe know this?”
“I—” Quintus broke off. His frown deepened. “I have not spoken of it before now.” After a moment’s silence, Quintus added, “And Father Joe is not a man to ask questions.”
“Yes. Yes, indeed.” Littlewood’s mouth had gone completely dry. “Might I ask, who governs the, ah, Roma from which you come?”
“The consules Valerius Messala and Gnaeus Domitius,” replied Quintus. “Myself, I am a soldier under the authority of Gaius Julius Caesar, twice governor of Gallia.”
“Good heavens.” Littlewood began to pace. He felt himself swelling with indignation. How could Khan have done this?
How could he have done it and then abandoned Quintus?
It was heartless. It was spineless.
Littlewood forced himself to stand still. Later, there would be time to be furious with Khan. Right now, he needed to establish a few things about Father Joe’s “stray.” How had the poor young man survived, let alone learned a new language, learned to pass in a new culture as a normal person—well, he wasn’t exactly normal, though, was he?
Clearing his throat, Littlewood said, “I’d like you to tell me everything you remember about the moments leading to your abduction.”
Quintus’s tale took only a few minutes, but Littlewood found it impossible to resist interjecting a few questions: How had he learned English so quickly? The young man explained he was skilled with languages, having learned those of the Aedui, the Arverni, and the Belgae, among others, which had made him an invaluable courier for Caesar. For Caesar! It was astonishing. It was unconscionable and a host of other things as well, but . . . the man had served Caesar.
“I don’t suppose you speak . . . Egyptian? Or any language spoken in Alexandria of, ah, your time?”
“Greek is the language of that barbarian city,” replied Quintus. “I can speak and write and read Greek.”
“How fortunate,” said Littlewood, perking up considerably. “I have a pet project . . . just an idea, mind . . .”
At this point, they were interrupted by the arrival of Everett and Jillian.
“Ah,” said Littlewood, beckoning the two over. Then he addressed Quintus. “I texted these friends—that is, I thought it might be good for you, well, hmm. Everett Randolph, Jillian Applegate, this is Quintus—ah, I don’t know your family name,” he said.
“I am of the Valerii.”
“Quintus Valerius then,” said Everett. “From . . . Rome?” Everett looked back at Littlewood as if seeking confirmation.
“Yes,” replied Quintus. “Do you know my family?”
“No, I haven’t had that pleasure,” replied Everett. He turned to Littlewood. “How much have you told Quintus Valerius about where and when he is now?”
“Oh well, now . . .” Littlewood paused, guilty. “I hadn’t quite gotten there yet. Perhaps you might . . . ?” He fidgeted with a mechanical pencil in one of his pockets.
Jillian, at Everett’s side, looked severely distressed. She turned to Everett.
“You’ve been through this,” she murmured to him. “It does give you a certain advantage in explaining things.”
Everett nodded and then extended his arm, indicating a table with four chairs around it. “Perhaps we might retire to the dining table.”
And then, while Jillian smiled encouragement and Littlewood fidgeted with his mechanical pencil, Everett explained things to Quintus, up to and including the harsh reality that Quintus could never return to his own time.
16
• QUINTUS •
Florida, April
After hearing the news, Quintus was silent for a long time. At first, he considered the possibility that their story was some elaborate ruse. But to what purpose? Besides, as he thought about all the mechanical marvels he had seen, things even Roma could not have dreamt of, he began to realize the explanation these Floridae offered was the most probable explanation: he had traveled forward in time.
As he accepted this, the implications began to sink in. This was worse—far worse—than facing a horde of barbarians. To learn that he could not return to Roma? To his Roma? It was devastating news. He could not deliver the letter from Caesar to Pompeius because Pompeius was dead. Caesar was dead. Everyone he knew was dead. The hairs on his arms raised, prickling. He had failed his general. Caesar had gone to his grave wondering why his letter had never been delivered. How could Quintus live with the shame? His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. A noble Roman, upon learning of such dishonor, would surely fall on his own blade.
And yet . . . did he wish to die?
His heart began to gallop within his chest as though to argue against death. It came to him that he did not wish to die. He wished to know things—so many things. If he had, indeed, crossed a bridge into the future, how could he turn back from the adventure? That would be a coward’s course. Shame, he might bear. The taint of cowardice, however, he would not endure.
He removed his hand from his sword.
“It’s a lot to take in,” said the girl called Jillian.
Quintus raised his eyes to meet hers. “It is,” he agreed. It came to him that Orpheus, journeying to the Underworld, must have felt much this way, surrounded by things so wholly unknown. Odysseus, venturing through the lands of Cyclops and monsters and gods, must also have felt as Quintus did now.
“But I will not shrink from it,” he added. He felt the truth of his words. He had faced danger before, faced brave foes before. And he would do so now. Starting with vengeance against Julius Canis. For this, he needed information.
“If he is no friend to you, how is it that Canis brought me to this place?” asked Quintus.
“Ah,” said Littlewood. “That would be my fault.”
Quintus’s brows furrowed. It took nobility of spirit to shoulder blame rather than shirk it. Pater Joe had chosen this friend, Arthur Littlewood, wisely.
“How so?” asked Quintus.
Littlewood waved a hand to a . . . contrivance at the room’s far end. It looked vaguely familiar. “I built the machine Khan used to, ah, kidnap you.”
“That . . . machine is the bridge that joined my time to yours?” asked Quintus.
“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. I’m afraid so.”
But this was marvelous news, if he understood it correctly. “You said I could not return to Roma. But if you control the bridge between my land and yours, why may I not return? Once I have revenged myself upon Canis, of course.”
This time it was Everett who spoke. Everett who explained that while a return might be made, it would be impossible for Quintus to remain in Roma. That an entity called space–time—a god of great power, Quintus concluded—would always call him back to this place.
“Six minutes, or thereabouts,” said Everett, “would be the longest you could remain, if you went home.”
“The time machine is not a toy,” Littlewood said gently. “I can’t authorize its use to send you home for visits any more than I would have authorized the sort of use Khan made of it.”
Quintus said nothing, only nodding once.
“The important thing,�
�� said Jillian, “is that there is still a you living your life in Rome. Or there was, I mean.” She paused for a moment before adding, “So no one you cared about, or were responsible for, has suffered as a result of your coming here. If that helps.”
Did it help? Hope seized him at her words. “If I had intended to deliver a message of grave importance—”
“Then likely you did it,” said Everett. “You didn’t stop being you, back in your own time. If it was important to you, then most likely you did it.”
“I do not understand ‘likely’,” said Quintus.
“It means probably,” said Jillian.
Probably. How was he to live with probably in such an important concern?
“I never meant for my invention to cause hardships, such as you’ve suffered,” Littlewood said softly. “I’m very sorry.”
“I hold you not to blame,” said Quintus. “Canis alone is to blame. And he shall pay the price.”
This remark began a series of pleas that he would refrain from seeking to take the life of Canis, and the consequences of doing so, should he be caught. The laws of this land were much like those of Roma. Quintus indicated that he understood. He did not, however, indicate that he would forego his revenge.
17
• KHAN •
Missouri, May
Khan’s progress was slow. Maddeningly slow. He’d started writing the software he would need to control the singularity, but after initial good progress, he’d run smack into a wall. He needed formulae stored on the missing thumb drive. He chose to take a break and work on recreating the schematics instead, trusting his mind would work the problem on its own if he switched to something new. Back in Florida during his aborted break-in, he’d had a brief look through the window in the lab door and seen things that had jogged his memory regarding the field shaping equipment and a few other components.
After finishing the schematics, he purchased copper and began shaping the coils. It was progress, but his lengthy break from writing the software did not, unfortunately, serve to unblock his memory.
Meanwhile, the finished copper coils were taking up a large portion of his already crowded living space. It was time, he decided, to rent a small industrial space where he could work without the interruption of nosy landlords wanting to bring by day-old bagels.
Soon after leasing the space, Khan found it necessary to order increased power connections. More money. More outlay against a future that continued to feel frustratingly out of reach. Large gaps remained in his memory and knowledge base. At the rate he was going, it might take him years of experimenting to get the singularity device built, much less functioning properly.
Returning to Florida, though, was a nonstarter. What he needed was his thumb drive. That would solve all his problems. He made a list of possible places the drive could have been lost. After a thorough hounding of the Greyhound Bus company, he admitted he ought to contact Mark in Omaha. He should have done this months ago, but up to this point, he’d been too proud to admit he might not be able to reconstruct the device on his own.
He reached Mark by email, describing the missing drive and including a picture of an identical one. Mark replied that, no, he’d found no thumb drives, but he then revealed he hadn’t stripped the car for parts after all. Mark had donated it to the Sisters of Saint Joseph in the apparent expectation that Sisters Margarethe and Jill would pray for his soul whenever they drove it out to the far goat pasture. Bizarre.
Bizarre, but also encouraging. If the car had not been stripped, the thumb drive might yet be found. It was a stretch, perhaps, but this news that the car was still in one piece was enough to get Khan back on a bus to Omaha, Nebraska. He would at least have the satisfaction of having left no avenue unexplored.
The Sisters of Saint Joseph were happy to allow Khan to give the car a once over, even offering to help him search for the thumb drive containing pictures of his beloved grandmother from the old country. The lie was out of his mouth before he could wonder if lying to nuns might result in significantly worse karma than lying to anyone else, but Khan didn’t believe in karma anyway.
Khan diligently searched every cranny and every crevice in the vehicle. In the process, he jammed several things under the nail bed of his right middle finger, which led to vociferous swearing. One of the sisters tittered. The other appeared to have begun praying for his soul.
Unfortunately, the thumb drive simply wasn’t to be found.
By midnight, he was back on a bus to Kansas City—and all the gluten-free blueberry muffins he could stomach—no closer to the information he needed. It was as though the drive had vanished into thin air.
“Impossible,” muttered Khan.
The next afternoon, he returned to his work, determined to discover his own solutions. And who knew? Perhaps they would prove more elegant than those Arthur Littlewood had come up with. He was twice the scientist—no, ten times the scientist Littlewood was. It was simply a matter of time before the secrets of the singularity revealed themselves to him. Simply a matter of time. Khan smiled grimly and set to work.
The Present
July
18
• DAVINCI •
California, July
DaVinci jumped out of the car and raced to the front door of her inexplicably terra-cotta-pink house, hoping against hope that she would find her family inside. Her heart pounding, she paused, listening for familiar voices. She didn’t hear a thing.
At the threshold, however, she noticed that the screen door was propped open with the rock Kahlo had painted in fourth grade to look like Mission San Juan Bautista. That had to be a good sign. If some other family was living here, they wouldn’t have kept Kahlo’s painted rock for a doorstop, would they?
She burst into the kitchen, clutching her Janson’s History of Art to her chest.
From beside the refrigerator, the twins turned to gape at her sudden appearance.
“You found your book,” said Klee.
“Told you I didn’t take it,” said Klee and Kahlo, in exactly the same intonation.
Dumping the book on the already-full kitchen table, DaVinci rushed forward to hug both her twin sisters at the same time.
“Ew! You’re sweaty,” said Kahlo.
“Dude. Seriously. Shower,” said Klee.
DaVinci stepped back. Ran a hand over her brow. She’d broken out in a cold sweat sometime in the past three minutes. But it was okay! Everything was okay. She could live with a hideous terra-cotta-pink exterior, so long as she had her home back.
“Sorry,” she said. “I, um . . .” DaVinci trailed off. She had no idea what she was supposed to have been doing. Where her sisters would think she’d been. It was . . . weird, not knowing what she had been up to.
“I washed your uniform,” said Klee.
Uniform?
“Mom made her,” said Kahlo. “For waking you up in the middle of the night.”
“Um, thanks,” said DaVinci. What uniform? Was this twin-speak for “your ratty, paint-splattered sundress that you totally need to retire from your wardrobe”?
“It’s on your bed,” said Klee.
“Okay,” said DaVinci.
“Better hurry,” said Kahlo.
“Okay,” DaVinci repeated. Uncertain why she was supposed to hurry, much less what else she could safely say, she took the narrow stairs that led up to the kids’ bedrooms. She stopped at the second door. It was closed, as usual. The twins were all about privacy. Humorous, considering they shared a room with her. But when she opened the door, she saw only two beds. Two beds with the twins’ things all over them.
Her bed was . . . gone.
Cautiously, she turned to stare at the door of Toulouse and Chagall’s old bedroom. She’d been bugging her parents for the past year to let her take over their now-unused room. Maybe in this version of history, she had.
She opened the door, her eyes sweeping over a dry-erase board on the door with some kind of two-week schedule. And then she slipped i
nside. Inside her new bedroom. She started giggling. She couldn’t stop giggling. There, in front of her, were her things! This was her room! With just one bed! There was no sign of either Toulouse’s or Chagall’s things anywhere to be seen. She had her own room!
She rose up on her toes, bouncing several times as she took in the room. It was neat. Tidy. Organized. All the things her shared room with the twins had never been. With an enormous sigh of relief, she allowed herself to fall backward onto her bed. It gave a familiar squawk, welcoming her back. Overhead, the Starry Night painting Toulouse had done on the ceiling in tenth grade shimmered down on her, just like it was supposed to. DaVinci smiled at it, glad that some things hadn’t been painted over.
“You’re all mine,” she said contentedly to the room. And then, flipping, she propped herself up on her elbows to admire the room some more. From downstairs, the side door by the stairs slammed shut, sending a whoosh of air into DaVinci’s new room at the head of the stairs. Her new room! It was probably going to take her weeks to stop walking into the twins’ room by mistake.
She smiled again. And then sniffed.
The air from downstairs brought some fishy smell with it. Yoshida was probably cooking fish sticks for lunch. He loved fish sticks. She shook her head and noticed the black clothing folded neatly at the end of her bed, between her and the door. On top was a note in one of the twins’ handwriting—their handwriting was impossible to tell apart—and a packet of gummy bears.
“Gummy bears?” muttered DaVinci, who didn’t like them. She tossed the packet aside and read the note.
“Sorry for waking you up. I know you need your sleep, and I’ll do better. Love, Klee. P.S.: I washed your clothes, but there are some smells you can’t get out.”
DaVinci frowned and sat up. She lifted a black shirt off a pair of black pants. She sniffed again. The fishy smell was coming from the shirt, not from downstairs. The shirt was plain and black. A buttoned shirt with long sleeves that Klee (or someone) had carefully folded to three-quarters length. Since when did DaVinci Shaughnessy-Pavlov wear black? Well, other than her freshman year in high school.
A Sword in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 3) Page 6
