Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (48 page)

With clockwork precision, ten more explosives followed at exactly five minutes apart, spreading in a line from north to south, the final one near Limehouse.

Theo frowned. That didn’t explain the Rotherhithe fires. Gritting his teeth, he waited. Ten minutes after the last blast in the East End, they began again on the south side of the river. There were seven of them and they were exactly twenty minutes apart.

After making the requisite trip to empty his bladder, it’d taken him two transfers to zero in on the location of the first explosion. The trips took their toll, rewarding him with a buzzing head and a churning stomach. Still, he was where he needed to be. Jacynda could not handle this sort of travel now. Though her Endorphin Rebound was in remission, it could easily return. They couldn’t chance that.

He was the best choice for this—the freshest of the Rovers.

A Rover?
Not really. He didn’t have what it took to do this day to day. What he did possess was an analytical mind, and that might tip the balance.

Once he’d found the location of the first explosion, he cautiously moved into a dismal rear yard behind an equally dismal tenement. Mud puddles dotted the ground. The yard was a jumble of abandoned items, all of it useless. Victorians wasted little. From recycled dog muck to ashes from the fireplace, they found a use for everything. If anything was left out where it could be stolen, it was truly junk.

Something caught his notice—a half-sized barrel jammed up against the gas pipe, partially covered with a ratty tarp. It would have been easy to miss it in the scattered debris. Theo knelt and gently pulled back the covering. Something was scrawled in red paint on the side of the barrel.

“
R12:7.
” He frowned. Twelve explosions in the East End, seven in the Docklands. What did the
“R”
stand for?

Three sticks of dynamite were attached to the back of the cask, one with a detonation cord. There didn’t appear to be any other mechanism to trigger the explosion, which meant the bomber would have to go from barrel to barrel to start the process.

“Too crude,” he said, frowning. Yet the detonations had been precisely five minutes apart. How did they accomplish that?

Now what?
If he moved the device, someone would know he’d been here.

Theo returned the tarp to its original position and stepped back. A moment later he was on the move, in search of the next site.

~••~••~••~

Thursday, 8 November, 1888

Arundel Hotel

Six p.m. on the dot. Cynda snapped her interface shut with more force than necessary, swearing under her breath. She’d been put to sleep about eleven in the morning and now it was seven hours later. No Theo.

“You’re a dead man, I swear it,” she groused.

“You can’t murder your boss,” Mr. Spider advised, scooping up a scone morsel from a plate on the writing desk.

“Why not? He drugged me.”

“He knew you needed rest.”

“Okay, so I’m rested. Where is he?”

“Playing Rover. Why don’t you just admit it? You’re worried.”

“Hell yes, I’m worried. Do you have any idea of what will happen if he gets hurt while I’m supposed to be watching him?”

The arachnid gave her a stern look. “It’s more than the paperwork and you know it.”

She opened her mouth to toast the little nuisance, and then groaned. “Yeah, I know. I’ve grown rather fond of him.” More fond than was probably sensible. “He might be smart, but he’s not a Rover. He doesn’t have our instincts. Those only come with experience.”

“Neither did you in the beginning.” The creature scoured the plate in search of crumbs. “Are there any more scones?”

“No. You’ve had enough.”

The spider’s response was uncivil.

Until now, she’d held off contacting Ralph to see if the boss was in 2058. If Theo wasn’t there, that’d just raise alarms and possibly put TPB on his tail.

Ten more minutes then I rat him out.

Three minutes later Cynda stood in front of the kneeling figure, tapping her foot, hands on her hips. The moment her boss looked up, she planned to nail him. Then he looked up. He was pasty gray, his eyes unfocused. His fingers clutched the interface, turning white at the knuckles. Classic time lag.

She dropped to her knees. “Theo?”

He gaped at her in wonder. Carefully prying the interface out of his hand, she wound it to recover its past history.

“Eight trips? You idiot!”

“Had to,” he said, weaving like a cobra captivated by its handler. “Know what happens.” A pause, and then he stared at her as if she’d just appeared in front of him. “Hellooo?”

Not good.

“Come on, boss, let’s get you to bed.”

“I’m Theo,” he corrected, trying to frown, but failing.

“Okay, Theo. Time for you to get some rest.”
So you’ll have some brains left when this is all over.

He squinted at her. “You’re pretty. Have I ever told you that?”

Oh geez.
Time lag came in a couple versions. Lag usually made Jacynda bitchy. Rumor said Defoe was the same way. Other Rovers acted drunk, like they’d had one too many casks of rum. Evidently, her boss was one of those.

“Great,” she muttered, hauling him to his feet.

“The room is spinning,” he announced. “Counterclockwise.”

You sure I can’t kill him?

“It’s looking better every minute,” the spider replied.

“The bed’s yours,” she announced, hauling Theo in that direction.

“Alone?” he said, quirking an eyebrow.

That’s payback.
She’d once said the same thing to him during one of her bouts of severe lag.

“Yes, on your own.”

“Pity, you’d be fun,” he said, nearly mirroring what she’d said to him.

Maybe he’s not as lagged as I think.

She sat him in bed, pulled off his shoes and coat. All the while, he gazed at her, enraptured. He needed an endorphin rise to counter the lag and the quickest way to achieve that was chocolate. She handed him a piece from the stash in her Gladstone. Theo acted like he had no idea what to do with it.

“Ralph always opened them for you,” her delusion suggested.

Thanks.
She peeled open the Victorian-style wrapper. “Here you are.”

“Don’t like it,” he said, pushing it away.

“Eat it anyway.” He shook his head. She counted to ten. “Eat. The. Chocolate.”
Or I will stuff it up your nose
.

“Does it work that way?” Mr. Spider asked, dubiously.

We’ll find out.

Four pieces of chocolate later, Theo’s eyes appeared less glazed—a sign his brain was coming back online. That eased some of Cynda’s anxiety. If he could recover this fast, he’d probably not done any permanent damage.

“Read notes. On interface,” he muttered. “Fulham sending maps.”

“Was it the Fenians?”

A light snore was his reply.

“Okay, I won’t kill him,” Cynda announced. Luckily Theo was asleep so he couldn’t hear her. “Actually, I’m very proud of him.”

As he’d painstakingly hopped all over Lord Mayor’s Day, then at set intervals into the future to judge the fire’s progress, Theo had dictated comments into his interface.

“I didn’t know you could do that. I really should read the holo-manual some day.”

The interface beeped. Text appeared in the air above it, an incoming message. It wasn’t from TEM Enterprises.

Cyn?

Hi Ralph. Why you at Guv?

Until the boss returns, company’s locked down.

“Locked down?”
What about his sister?
she typed.

TPB’s not touched her. We just can’t do business as usual. Fulham and I are at Guv now. How’s the boss?

Sleeping. Tried to fry his brain with all the transfers.

He learnt from the best. Sending you maps and newspapers.

Thanks.

There was a long pause.
Be careful. This looks way bad.
Another pause
.
Love you, Cyn.

She whistled under her breath. He’d never said that in all the years they’d known each other. It felt final.

Love you too, guy. Keep the lamp lit, will you?

You got it. Log off.

Logged off.

The maps appeared shortly thereafter, a stark blueprint of London’s devastation. The explosives ignited fires along the south side of the river in Rotherhithe, and in the East End. Driven by a strong wind, the flames moved resolutely westward. By the end of the first day, they’d reached the Aldgate Pump near Leadenhall Street. By the third, they were consuming St. Paul’s, and by the seventh they were turning Britain’s beloved national art treasures to so much powdery ash. The fire storm finally died out almost ten days later, coming perilously close to the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey. By Fulham’s estimates, nearly seventy-five percent of the city would be destroyed.

Three-quarters of London gone.
It was unfathomable, even though she could trace the fire’s path on the map, street by street. Cynda heaved a sigh of relief when she realized that Alastair’s house was still there, miraculously untouched. Annabelle’s Boarding House was gone; so was St. Botolph’s Church, Spitalfields Market and most of the pubs she’d frequented.

“Pratchett’s is gone,” her delusion observed, poised on the side of the map. “This hotel, too.”

“Scotland Yard and most of Whitehall,” Cynda added. “At least it didn’t reach the Wescombs’ house.”

A familiar sound made her turn. Three newspapers sat in a pile on the floor, the whirling colors of the transfer fading as she watched. She scooped them up. The newspapers were from Scotland and Ireland. Not a surprise: the presses in London wouldn’t be functional for quite awhile.

The first one was dated November 16, a week after the fire began, and it detailed the locations of each ignition point in the East End.

Words leapt out at her:

HORRIFIC LOSS OF LIFE

Riots widespread–Army called out

Jews, foreigners and Irish face street justice

Mobs roam West End–hundreds dead

By the time she reached the final newspaper, published on the last day of the year, she could hardly breathe. The articles spoke of armed mobs, mostly in the posh West End. They’d stormed houses, robbing, raping and murdering with little police interference. Mayfair, Kensington and Marylebone were the hardest hit.

“The Wescombs live in Marylebone,” her delusion said.

“I know.”

By the time London finally regained control of its streets, nearly ten thousand souls had died by fire, disease or anarchy.

The heart of the British Empire was about to sustain a massive coronary.

We have to find a way to stop this.

~••~••~••~

“This is unbelievable,” Keats exclaimed, bending over the map he’d spread out on the writing table in Cynda’s hotel room. Alastair peered over his shoulder. “I realize you know things we don’t, but this is so outlandish, Jacynda. This must be a mistake.”

She glowered, not in the mood for this battle.

“Remember, this is their home,” Mr. Spider whispered from her shoulder. “Imagine what you’d say if someone told you everything you care for was about to be destroyed.”

Her delusion was right. She softened her tone. “I saw it for myself. London will burn if we don’t stop this.”

Keats was unconvinced. “Are you sure you’re well? You were hallucinating for a time and—”

Alastair gently touched his sleeve. “If you look closely, you’ll see small burns on her cheeks and hands. This is real, Keats.”

The sergeant loosened his collar. “How far does the fire extend?”

After directing a nod of gratitude to Alastair, she pulled out the second map, laying it over the first.

“It burns for
ten
days?
” Incredulously, Keats traced his finger west until it halted near the Westminster Bridge. “That far.”

Alastair raised his eyes from the documents. “How bad does it get?”

She placed the newspapers in front of them and then retreated to the window as they sifted through the articles. Below her, people bustled along the street. Some carried baskets, no doubt with food purchased for the holiday.
Food that might never be eaten.