Littlewood sighed and ran a hand over his hair, noting that some of it was sticking straight up. He mussed his hair unconsciously when he was working a problem. Khan had enjoyed laughing at his hair. Khan. Where was he now? Best not to dwell on that whole, sorry debacle.
He was attempting to shift his thoughts to lunch when a stranger appeared in the lab. “Appeared” as in . . . appeared. Not entered by way of stairs and door, simply there as if by magic.
The stranger’s back was to him. It was someone who was old. Elderly, in fact.
“Rats!” said the stranger, gnarled hands on his narrow hips. He was observing the desk where Littlewood normally sat and worked.
The stranger’s voice sounded oddly familiar, although it had an unexpected wheezing quality. As Littlewood tried to place the voice’s owner, he realized with a frisson of shock that it was his own voice. Being used by someone else. A sudden possibility occurred to him.
“Are you looking for me?” asked Littlewood.
“Ah yes,” said the elderly man, slowly turning around. “Memory’s a funny thing, you know. In my memory, I was sitting at my desk. That is, I was sitting there when, ah, older-I appeared in the room. Yes, yes, yes. Now I recall. I had been sitting at Khan’s former desk. Where you are now.” A look of sadness crossed the old man’s face but quickly passed. He held out his hand.
“Good to see you,” said the old man.
Littlewood shook hands, adding, “I wasn’t . . . expecting you.”
“No, no, you wouldn’t be,” said the elderly man, with a smile. “For you this hasn’t happened yet.”
“Ah . . . right. Yes,” said the younger Littlewood. “Might I ask why you are—”
The elderly man interrupted him. “Oh, I’m doing very well. Thank you for asking.”
He’d misheard the question. Before the younger Littlewood could ask it again, his older “self” uttered a single laugh and spoke.
“No need for me to ask how you are doing. I remember, right down to the lens replacement surgery you’re considering. Here’s a tip: get the surgery. You won’t regret it.”
Littlewood’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ve come here to recommend eye surgery?”
“Oh, no. I’m here for, well, for several reasons. In part, of course, I am here because I remember having been visited by an older version of myself. It’s our birthday today. Many happy returns.”
“Same to you,” Littlewood said automatically. He’d forgotten it was his birthday. Another year older, and all that. The back of his neck prickled slightly. This was by far the oddest thing that had ever happened to him. And that was saying something for someone who’d invented time travel.
“We’d better get right down to it,” said the elderly man, dragging a chair to Khan’s desk. “I’ve brought you some calculations.”
“Calculations?” asked the younger Littlewood.
The old man unrolled a semitransparent sheet of . . . something, and set it flat on the desk, where it held its new flattened shape. He then tapped it twice and it awoke, some kind of futuristic-looking screen covered with calculations.
“Here is what I came for,” said the older man, indicating the futuristic screen. “We’ve got forty-nine or so minutes remaining to go over these formulae.”
His expression seemed to brighten. “My, but it is nice to see you. Such good memories. I was rather dapper in my middle age, wasn’t I?”
Littlewood honestly could not imagine saying such a thing, even though it was obvious he would, one day, say it. The experience truly was very, very odd.
Brushing the thoughts aside, he examined the futuristic screen on the desk.
“What am I looking at?” he asked.
The elderly Littlewood cleared his throat. “Thus far in our work with the temporal singularity, we’ve only been using the fundamental frequency.” He paused to indicate a formula with which Littlewood was extremely familiar. “But we can double the frequency by using a higher harmonic—”
“Good heavens!” murmured the younger Littlewood. He stood and began fidgeting with the keys in his pocket.
“You see where I’m going?” asked the older man.
Littlewood nodded. “It never occurred to me . . .” He looked up at . . . himself. “This would mean longer journeys are possible.”
“Exactly. The length-of-stay formula is highly nonlinear, but increases rapidly with frequency. The formula is here.”
The older man scrolled down to a complex formula on his screen.
“Ah,” said Littlewood. “That’s brilliant. Please, you must show me the derivation.”
“No time for that now. You’ll figure it out.”
“Are you sure?” Littlewood looked up, uncertain.
“Trust me,” the older man responded.
The younger Littlewood sat back down at the desk, his keys falling through the hole in his pocket for the third time in a week. “I can’t believe I never thought of this.”
“Well, you did think of it,” said the older man. “In a manner of speaking.”
“I did?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Ah. Yes,” said the younger man, “I suppose I did.”
“You ought to get that hole in your pocket repaired.”
“I’ve been meaning to.”
“I know.” The elderly Littlewood seemed to lose himself in thought for a moment. “Well, nothing to be done about it,” he said cryptically.
The younger Littlewood noticed the time. “Oh dear. Quintus—that is, my security guard—will be here soon along with Everett. I’ve planned a trip to the Ancient Library.”
“Yes. Quite. Hmm. The best laid plans and all that . . .”
He paused and held up a hand. “But I say nothing, of course.” He smiled and changed the subject. “Dear Quintus. I’ve missed him. Between you and me, you could stand to be a little kinder to the boy.”
“Kinder?”
“Ah. Well. He is not from an age where men were given to express their feelings of loss or loneliness, but trust me, he suffers.”
Littlewood blinked. “I’ll try to be . . . kinder.”
“Now listen carefully, my boy,” said the older man. He consulted his watch. “Should there come a time in the future when you need to, ah, disappear, you now have the means to do so for a considerable length of time. You do see that, do you not?”
“Are you saying I’m going to need to disappear?”
“Not this year—ah! I forget myself. I say nothing. I make no predictions. I reveal nothing.”
The middle-aged Littlewood released an exasperated sigh.
“That is,” said the old man, extending a bony finger, “I reveal only what I am supposed to reveal.”
“How can you be sure you should be telling me any of this?”
“That’s pretty obvious, I should think. I’m speaking to you now because it already happened,” said the elderly Littlewood, smiling.
“Right. Right, of course. It’s just . . . you must admit this is very strange.”
“Yes. Time travel conundrums are very strange. Now then, remember what I said about young Quintus.” The old man eyed the younger one sternly. “Make a point of being nicer. Take him to see Father Joe now and again.”
Littlewood found himself nodding to his older self.
“Ah,” said the elderly man, consulting his watch. “Time’s up.”
And with that, Arthur Littlewood the younger had the disturbing experience of watching the elder version of himself vanish into thin air. There, and then gone. Just like that.
“Good heavens,” he said, sinking into a chair once more.
Ten minutes later, he was still sitting in the chair musing about harmonics and temporal pocket dimensions when Everett and Quintus arrived, already dressed for the journey to ancient Alexandria.
“Oh,” said Littlewood, looking up. Kinder to Quintus, he’d promised.
“Ah, how are you both? Today? This afternoon?” He released a sing
le nervous laugh.
“I am rested and prepared for the journey,” replied Quintus, who was wearing his first-century military garb—handy in a pinch, since Rome ruled Alexandria during the era Littlewood was sending them to.
Everett smiled and murmured, “I am well, thank you. And yourself?”
Littlewood clapped his hands together once and said, “Well, let’s send you off then.”
The three crossed to the time machine. Littlewood fumbled for another means by which he might be kinder to Quintus.
“And, ah, how are you finding life as a security guard?” he asked as he reached to awaken the podium screen.
Quintus mounted the platform. “You pay more than is just,” he said.
Everett barked out a single laugh.
“Ah. Well . . .” stammered Littlewood. He was only able to pay a dollar an hour above minimum wage, for heaven’s sake. “I should think the, ah, terrible hours more than justify a rather better level of pay.” He busied himself with the singularity device and thought of something else he could say. “I’ve noticed your English is improving. We must take you to see Father Joe. He will be impressed.”
“I’ve suggested a few idioms,” said Everett. “Well, the selfsame ones Jillian has to remind me to use,” he added, grinning.
“Everett has directed me to the . . . podcasts on . . . YouTube,” said Quintus. “I am learning also the Spanish tongue.”
Littlewood considered explaining the proper placement of the modifier also, but he decided it could wait since the machine was screaming and almost fully charged. A moment later, Everett and Quintus were frozen in place, disappearing amid a burst of blue electric light.
“Well,” murmured Littlewood to himself, “kindness is rather mentally exhausting work.”
He spent the next several minutes trying to recall what he might have appreciated most as a college-aged fellow, but he found himself quite at a loss, until his stomach growled, at which point he smiled and pulled out his phone.
By the time the two young men returned six minutes later, scrolls in hand, Littlewood was busily entering a credit card number for a delivery pizza he’d ordered online. He had, for the time being, entirely forgotten anything else pertaining to the elderly Littlewood’s visit.
23
• QUINTUS •
Florida, June
Quintus had been working for Dr. Littlewood for nearly three months since first learning his old life had vanished two thousand years in the past. During those months, his English had improved considerably, in large part thanks to Everett. Improving his English was not, however, Quintus’s most important task. He had a far more important goal: to learn how the time machine was operated so that he might return and ensure his letter from Caesar reached its intended recipient, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus.
To this end, Quintus had offered his services to Littlewood beyond those hours when he stood guard. Of course, spending so much of his life at the lab also furthered his second goal: there was always the possibility, however slight, that Jules Khan would steal into the laboratory again, there to meet his fate at Quintus’s hand. Quintus had been given to understand the magistrates of this land neither could nor would punish Khan, so the task fell on Quintus’s shoulders. He was not sorry for this.
But he had his other, more urgent task to complete first: return to Rome and deliver the letter. He had never failed Caesar before, and he would not forget his allegiance and duty merely because centuries divided him from his commander.
Everett had argued that the other Quintus Valerius had, in all probability, delivered the letter. But Quintus was not a man to deal in probabilities. He dealt only in certainties, and until he had placed the message with which he was entrusted into Pompeius’s hands, he would not count himself free of his obligation. He had not considered anything beyond this purpose. He could not bear to think of the future, of a life bereft of service to Rome, bereft of family, wife, son—of all the things that had made his life his life. At times when thoughts of his empty existence crept round, he would grip his gladius. He was a true Roman. He did not fear an honorable death upon his sword. But this could come only after he had fulfilled his obligation to Caesar.
Fortunately, there was little left to learn before he could operate the machine himself. Repeatedly, he had accompanied Everett, traveling through time to Alexandria, two thousand years in the past. Littlewood spoke always of this use of the machine as a noble calling. Perhaps it was. All the world had heard of the great library in Alexandria.
But Quintus had a greater calling. And he let not a single day pass where he did not ask a question, look over a shoulder, study the operation of the computer, observe the list of instructions that must be followed for the machine to function correctly. He listened and learned and studied, waiting for the day when he would be ready. He would return to his own time and he would ensure Pompeius received Caesar’s letter.
Or he would die trying.
The Present
July
24
• NEVIS •
Florida, July
Special Agent Benjamin Nevis scanned the administrative office of the University of South Central Florida’s physics department. The AC was set at arctic. There had to be a sixty-degree temperature difference between the sweltering day outside and the frigid indoor climate. Maybe he should be investigating this office for power surges on the electrical grid instead of investigating . . . whoever he was meeting with today.
Nevis glanced at the name flagged for investigation: Dr. Arthur Littlewood.
Littlewood didn’t seem the type to engage in electrical grid terrorism. American born of Polish descent, drawing a tidy little salary as a tenured professor with a multiyear grant in the seven-figure range, over two years’ worth of accrued paid vacation. The kind of researcher so stuck in his ivory tower, he probably didn’t know who was president or who’d won last year’s Super Bowl. Of course, come to think of it, Nevis wasn’t sure who’d won last year’s Super Bowl, either.
He tapped his fingertips on the counter—a haven’t-got-all-day gesture intended to attract attention. Even though he did have all day. He had all day all the days. His SAC had given him a list nine miles long of individuals and companies to investigate and approve. Enough for months spent on the road sleeping at Hampton Inns and getting fat on complimentary breakfast waffles. He wondered what it would take to get the bureau to spring for an occasional Garden Inn so he could order an omelet instead?
More finger tapping.
An apologetic administrative assistant crossed back to the counter, complaining that Littlewood was impossible.
“He doesn’t remember to charge his phone. Or leaves it in his car half the time.” The secretary leaned in and whispered, “Genius, of course, and we’re lucky to have him, but zero common sense.”
Nevis accepted the campus map and another apology for the wait. As he left the office, the heat slammed into him. My God, how did Floridians do it? DC was bad, but this? It was like walking into a sauna set to masochist level. He’d tried jogging this morning at five forty-five, but by six he’d called it. Too hot. Which had meant a dull hour spent in a musty-smelling fitness center instead. Why did hotel fitness centers all look and smell exactly the same?
He turned a corner and found the building he was looking for. The building’s interior wasn’t as frigid as the administrative office, thankfully. He entered the lab marked “Littlewood Group,” and after a quick glance at the photo of Arthur Littlewood on his phone, began a search for the man himself. He saw only students, however, and a custodian relining a trash barrel.
“Can I help you?” asked a man entering behind Nevis.
Nevis’s jaw tightened, and he overrode the instinct to treat the man behind him as a threat. Although, who knew?
“Special Agent Nevis, FBI,” he said, turning and flashing his badge.
“Oh yes. That was today? Right. How sloppy of me. Terribly sorry. I’m Arthur Littlewood. Come on in. Tha
t is, you’re already in. So, ah, how can I help you?”
“Let’s step outside to talk in private, shall we?” said Nevis, tipping his head at the students hunched over laptop computers.
“Of course, of course. I forgot our meeting was today. Professional hazard. Forgetfulness, I mean. It runs in the profession.” A nervous laugh.
The two stepped into a high-ceilinged atrium. Nevis paused beside a noisy fountain that he felt would provide sufficient cover for their conversation.
“So why am I being ‘investigated’?” asked Littlewood, making nervous air quotes around the word investigated, a thin smile on his face.
Nevis didn’t smile back. “I work in the National Security Branch, counterterrorism. We’re conducting a national investigation on stressors on the electrical grid, looking for spike loads that might fry transformers. It’s possible terrorists could use such stressors to bring down key substations.” At this, Littlewood’s countenance seemed to relax, which Nevis found odd.
“Oh. Well, if it’s key substations you want,” said Littlewood, “I shouldn’t think central Florida is much of a—”
“We’re taking a no-stone-unturned approach.” Nevis arranged his features into a smile that didn’t reach his gray eyes.
“No, no. Quite. Yes. Good. Nice to know our little university is on someone’s radar.” Littlewood swallowed, a nervous signal indicating he was anything but pleased at being “on someone’s radar.”
Nevis continued. “Our analysis puts the central Florida station as a weak point based on high peak usage incidents that point back to you.” There. Let him squirm a little.
“You think I’m planning a . . . a . . . an act of terrorism?” Littlewood’s color went slightly gray, matching the streaks at his temples.
“If I had questions on that count, you and I would be having a different conversation in lieu of this pleasant one. In your case, approval should be straightforward. Your profile doesn’t reveal anything that would lead us to suspect you are planning an act of terrorism.”
A Sword in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 3) Page 9
