The Trouble With Time (14 page)

“You are a canine genius, Curtis.”

The dog’s attention left Ryker. His big ears pricked. Next moment he hurtled to the door, doing his Hound of the Baskervilles impression as the doorbell rang. Ryker clicked to bring up the outside camera on the monitor. He recognized the man in the alleyway and his face took on the aspect of one who has sucked a lemon. Without hurrying, he went to the door and opened it as the bell rang again, not troubling to conceal his dislike and suspicion.

“What d’you want?”

“Good evening to you too, Mr Ryker. I want to come in.”

Ryker stood aside grudgingly and Quinn strolled into the room. He sat at the computer desk and released the TiTrav from his wrist.

“It’s not working. I’m getting an error message.”

Ryker took it and switched it on. He smiled as he read the message. Culcavy wrote that himself; you didn’t get it on the more recent IEMA TiTravs. He connected the device to his computer. The screen filled with code. Ryker concentrated, ignoring Quinn. He saw instantly what the problem was; one of the galactic data files had failed to load. Really minor – if Quinn had turned it off and pressed the reset button, the problem would have resolved itself. Everything else was fine . . . he scrolled down the screen, brow furrowed, making Quinn wait. Ryker’s mind went to Saffy; lately he had been worrying about her, slaving away in that bar for a pittance with no prospects or place of her own. Since Pete died he’d kept in touch with her, bought her a meal now and then and let her talk about her dad. Now it occurred to him that with access to Quinn’s TiTrav, he could make Pete’s plans for her a reality.

After five minutes he said, “Lucky you didn’t try to use it like this. Your atoms would be scattered right across the Milky Way. Have you dropped it recently?”

“No. What’s wrong with it?”

“The galactic data files are screwed big time and will need to be reloaded, but that’s the least of it. The particle analyser’s on the blink – I might be able to fix that, but really you could do with a replacement, and they’re hard to get hold of. You need a new battery. The chronologer looks dodgy, too, but I can’t be sure without running some diagnostics, and that’ll take time.” He turned to look at Quinn. “You’ll have to leave it with me. It’s going to take a week, maybe two, to find or make the parts. I’ll see what I can do.”

Quinn looked hard at him through narrowed eyes, and Ryker felt suddenly afraid. Perhaps he’d overplayed his hand. It would be really bad if Quinn guessed he was lying. He concentrated on maintaining a neutral expression and not showing fear. Then he had a flash of inspiration.

“And it’ll cost you,” he added. “It’s your own fault, you should have brought it to me for a regular service.”

The distraction worked. “I think we can leave money out of this discussion,” said Quinn. “If I were you, Mr Ryker, I’d make keeping me happy the main focus of your efforts. I might also, in your place, do what I could to avoid spending the next twenty years in jail, or meeting an early and disagreeable death. But of course, it’s entirely up to you.”

This was better. Quinn was not likely to fit him up or kill him, because he needed him to keep the TiTrav working, not just now but in the future. The threat was an empty one. On the other hand, there were still plenty of things Quinn
could
do to Ryker. He started listing them in his head and, with an effort, made himself stop.

“Like I said, I’ll do my best. If I put off the jobs I’ve got and ask around, I might be able to locate a battery. That’s the easy part. There’s a lot of delicate work here, and it’s got to be done one hundred per cent accurate. No point doing a rush job if you don’t want it to let you down. I’ll see if I can do it by Saturday week.”

“Make sure it’s in full working order.” Quinn got to his feet. “Because when I collect it at nine am Saturday the twenty-sixth, you’ll be coming with me on a test trip.”

After Quinn had left, Ryker made himself a cup of tea, hands shaking. It was all good, though; he’d put one over on Quinn, the bastard, plus he’d be able to rent out the TiTrav to Vadik Sokolov. And he’d told Quinn it needed regular servicing, so that might turn into a nice little earner.

Quite a few people had let Ryker know they were in the market for hiring a TiTrav, if the opportunity arose; but not all of them could be trusted to bring it back. Vadik was an honest villain, and Ryker trusted him.

Thursday, 23
^rd
July 2015 ~ Monday, 21
^st
March 2050

“Florence?”

Floss swivelled, house keys poised by the lock, her other hand holding her bike steady. Nobody had called her Florence since her school days. Screwing up her eyes against the sun, she saw a big tall man with stubble-short hair standing on the pavement. She could have sworn the street was empty a moment before. He was strangely dressed in a long jacket with decorative buttons, a high collar and snowy shirt, reminiscent of Regency costume.

He came up the steps towards her. “Florence Dryden?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Florence Dryden, by the powers vested in me by the World Government, I am apprehending you under Section 27 Clause 8, the prevention of extraordinary danger to humankind. You will be given legal representation in due course should you wish it.”

Floss could make no sense at all of this. “
What?
What are you talking about?”

His hand reached out and seized her arm, jerking her away from the bicycle. For an astonished second she looked into cold blue eyes, then the world went dark, inky black, and her stomach felt as if she was simultaneously plummeting in a lift and spinning on a fairground ride. Time passed, long enough for her to wonder if he had hit her over the head – was this what being knocked out felt like? Or maybe this was what death felt like. Terror assailed her while she battled with acute nausea, then she felt solid ground beneath her feet and could see again.

She was in a large conference room with leather chairs and sofas. A waiter and waitress stood to one side behind a long table covered in a white cloth, on which were arranged bottles, glasses and canapés. A small group of people stood around, but Floss could focus on nothing beyond the fact that she was going to be very sick. She bent forward, the man’s arm still supporting her, and threw up spectacularly on to the black marble floor. There were murmurs of concern. One man fetched her a seat, and a woman went to get her a glass of water. Floss took a drink, then stared about her. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows on two sides she saw rain and darkness. Some sort of strange robotic vacuum cleaner hummed quietly across the room and cleaned the floor.

“Where am I?” she said without a trace of irony.

The man who had brought her here pulled up a chair and sat beside her. His voice was calm and authoritative. “Don’t be alarmed, Miss Dryden. You are in London, in the year 2050. Thirty-five years after your own time. My name is Ansel Quinn.”

Floss could have dealt with this better had she not felt so shaky and weak. She said, “You’re telling me you’ve brought me to the future?” He nodded. “Why?”

There was a rap on the door, and a man looked in. “They’re ready to leave now, Mr Quinn.”

Quinn stood. “You’ll excuse me. I’ll be back shortly. Kayla and the others will take care of you and answer any questions you have.” He smiled and left the room.

“How are you feeling?” the woman called Kayla asked. Everyone else stood around, watching her.

“Confused. You’re telling me time travel is a thing?”

“Yes. Though it’s illegal, with a few exceptions. Even in your time, scientists thought it was theoretically possible. An exceptionally brilliant physicist called Ben Culcavy actually made it happen.”

“What about . . . violating the law of causality?”

“In practice, events proved to be infinitely changeable – which is a whole different problem, admittedly.”

Why was she even having this weird conversation? Floss said, “Assuming for the moment this is true, then what do you want with me?”

“I think I’d better leave that to Ansel – Mr Quinn – to explain. Can I get you anything?”

“No.” As Floss began to feel better, the enormity of her situation struck her. “How come you think you have the right to snatch me from my own time? When are you going to take me back?”

“Really, it’s best to wait –”

Floss got to her feet. “No, it’s not best to wait! You owe me an explanation, now!”

A woman with a professionally patient smile stepped forward and said in a soothing voice, “Florence, I understand you must be feeling very disorientated and upset. I’m Jess, and I’ve been assigned as your counsellor, to assist you through this difficult transitional stage. This is my colleague, Dr Ademola, who is a psychiatrist. We are here to answer any questions you may have, and help you as you adjust to your new life. We can have a quiet talk together here for as long as you like when Mr Quinn returns, and then we’ll show you where you’ll be living.”

Floss looked at her as if she was mad. “I don’t want to talk to you and I don’t need a counsellor or a psychiatrist. I don’t need some total stranger to understand my feelings. I just need to go back to my own time!”

The door opened while she was speaking and Quinn walked in, his face set. The others turned to him. He looked around the group.

“Lord Clanranald and Sir Douglas won’t be coming after all. There’s been a change of plan. The reception has been cancelled. You can all go home. I’m taking Miss Dryden to dinner.”

After a surprised moment, people exchanged glances and moved towards the door. At a glance from Quinn, the waiter and waitress began to remove the refreshments. Only Kayla, Jess and Dr Ademola remained.

He turned to them. “You can go too. I’ll deal with this.”

Jess said, “This is most irregular. I strongly feel that after such a traumatic experience Florence needs the professional guidance that only a trained –”

“What she needs is answers, and I can give her those.” Jess started to speak and Quinn cut her off. “I’ll call you if I need you.” He stared at her. She stared back, her colour rising, then she turned and walked out, followed by Dr Ademola.

Kayla put a hand on Quinn’s arm and said, “Would you like me to –”

“No.”

She left the room, glancing over her shoulder as she went. Floss said, “What the hell is going on? I demand an explanation.”

“You shall have one. When we’re sitting down over a good meal. Come with me.”

Floss followed him to a lobby, where they got into a lift. Two seconds later, they emerged into a ground floor foyer, and out to the street. Quinn led her to a strange vehicle the shape of a squashed sphere with adverts on the side and a blue light on top. Its door slid open. Quinn motioned her inside, got in beside her and held what looked like some sort of mobile phone up to the screen. “Federico in Lamb’s Passage.”

A dulcet female voice said, “Thank you, Ansel Quinn. The restaurant, Federico, is zero point nine miles distance. Estimated time of arrival, 7.36 pm. Your saved preference is the advertisement-free option. If this journey is approved, touch Yes on the screen. If not, touch No for other options.”

Quinn tapped Yes, and the car swivelled on the spot and moved smoothly and silently into the traffic, which consisted of similar vehicles and bicycles. For Floss, the driverless car removed her lingering doubts that she had actually been taken to the future, that she was not the victim of some insanely elaborate hoax for a television programme. Quinn was tapping intently on his phone, brow furrowed. Floss glanced surreptitiously at him, trying to get his measure without him noticing. Tall and well built, with an air of confidence, he was clearly a powerful man in this world. She’d put his age at thirty-seven. His fancy clothes, now she could have a good look at them, were beautifully made. The crimson velvet waistcoat was embroidered, and his high boots with silver buckles down the side had the soft sheen of expensive leather. He looked natural in these over-the-top clothes. Floss tried to imagine him in a business suit.

London moved past the big curved windows of the car. She craned to make out buildings she knew in the dark. The streetlights didn’t have the orange glare of sodium, but gave a much nicer soft white light. They passed tall trees and railings and something about them seemed to interest Quinn. He turned his head to stare. Floss followed his gaze and recognized the far side of Bunhill Fields, unchanged in thirty years. This part of London was practically home ground.

She sat back and marshalled her thoughts. Ansel Quinn probably represented her best chance of getting back to her own time, so there was everything to be said for not antagonizing him. No point throwing a hissy fit. Stay calm, and find out what was going on. First, she needed information, which Quinn had said he would provide.

The car stopped outside an Italian restaurant. The sultry voice announced, “You have arrived at your destination. Thank you for travelling. Enjoy your evening.” The door nearest the kerb slid open. Quinn got out and she followed him into the restaurant.

The interior was darkly elegant, candles on the tables illuminating white tablecloths, and about half full. The maître d’ approached, smiling warmly. “Mr Quinn, how nice to see you. Madame.” He showed them to a table in the corner with a view of the room and handed them menus. While Floss was choosing, thinking how bizarre it was to be eating out thirty-five years in the future with a stranger, Quinn asked after the man’s wife and daughter and ordered a bottle of wine, which came directly. While he was talking to the maître d’ and the waiter, Floss studied him under her lashes. Though not good-looking, he was attractive, she decided. She had thought his eyes cold, but she had been wrong; they were warm, humorous and interested. He treated the restaurant staff like real people; she could see they liked him. Their order given, he settled back in his chair and turned his full attention to Floss.

“Florence – may I call you that?”

“If you like, but no one does. It’s Floss.”