Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (56 page)

Damn.
That was her final card in the game.

“Miss Lassiter?” Satyr asked. “A test, if you will permit me.”

Another one?
She could only nod, unsure where he was headed.

“One of my assassins is in this room, and he is currently invisible. Point him out to me.”

“This is nonsense!” the Ascendant protested. “No one can see a Virtual when they are hiding their form.”

Cynda swiveled, looking for the characteristic bloom. There it was, standing near one of the wooden posts that supported the massive roof.

She pointed. “There.”

“Archer. Reveal yourself.”

The one named Archer materialized into view as gasps and frenzied whispering broke out amongst the Twenty.

“This has no bearing,” the Ascendant insisted. “She is not one of us.”

“If she can truly see us, she is as much Transitive as we are. A Perceiver ranks even higher than a Virtual, because they are so rare,” Satyr countered smoothly.

Cynda could have kissed him for that, though that would have put her within knife range. There was no guarantee how long their truce might last.

“She is deceiving all of you. She is the Devil’s whore, can you not see it?”

He’d gone too far. “Now wait a minute—” Cynda began.

The brave man took another step forward. “By tradition there must be a woman on the Twenty. I nominate this person,” he called out, pointing toward her. “Do I hear a second?”

“You can’t do that,” the Ascendant growled. “She’s not—”

“Second!” another voice called, suddenly full of confidence.

“Third!”

“We are now seventeen strong,” the first man announced. “How do we vote on the future of the Ascendant? Yea for life, or nay for death.”

There was a long pause. Cynda’s heart thudded. If they backed down now, she was dead. They all were, if they took the time to think about it.

From near the front of the pack, a tremulous voice called out, “Nay!”

“Who was that? Was that Cartwright?” the Ascendant bellowed.

“Nay!” another shouted, while staring at the one named Cartwright like he’d just witnessed something extraordinary.

“Hastings? What is this treachery?” their leader demanded.

“I’m no traitor!” Hastings shouted back. “I did your bidding, and you repaid me by disbanding The Conclave. How dare you treat us so shabbily?”

“Your opinion does not matter. None of you. I will not stand for this.”

Cynda bit her lip to stay silent. The Ascendant was digging his own grave.

Another voice. “Nay!”

Emboldened, thirteen more nays erupted like gunshots, echoing off the warehouse ceiling in rapid succession. Then they all looked toward her.

Their superior waved Tobin forward and the assassin took a step closer in her direction. There was no other woman present. If he cut her down, the Twenty was out of options.

She hazarded a quick look at Satyr. The Lead Assassin didn’t twitch a muscle. This was her battle.

“Will the
real
Archangel Michael
put things right?” she asked.

Satyr’s eyes widened at the use of his first name. “Yes,” he replied.

“Then I shall do the same for him and his kind.”

He nodded in respect, a pact made.

“Nay!” she shouted.

Cynda heard the shriek the moment she exited the double doors. Tobin or the Ascendant? If the young assassin had been stupid enough to get between Satyr and his boss, that was his decision.

“The King is Dead! Long Live the King!” she called out.

Hopefully the new Ascendant would be less gullible.

~••~••~••~

What’s left of the genius…

Cynda lit a single gas lamp in the hotel room, but she knew that all the light in England would not push back the darkness. Chris’ death had wounded her in ways she’d not thought possible. It had only been a harbinger of Theo’s loss. Emptiness enfolded her like a tomb, choking the air out of her lungs, pressing down on her like a mountain range.

Cynda laid his interface in her palm. This was guilt that would never fade—the kind that had haunted Theo about his beloved Mei. It would become part of Cynda now, like her skin. Any reminder of him would call up that failure. His dark eyes, the silken whoosh of the sword moving though the air, the tang of the spicy tea, the soft brush of his voice. She remembered the anticipation she’d felt each morning when he emerged from his rooms. The genuine friendship they’d forged.

She could see her path leading to this moment so clearly now. Chris had gently pried open her heart so she knew love when she saw it. Alastair and Jonathon had nurtured that hope, each in their own way. It had been Theo who’d showed her love could truly be hers, if she were willing to take the risk. She hadn’t, at least not in time.

Unconsciously, she tightened her grip on the pocket watch. There was a noticeable click. Puzzled, she found it had opened, but not to reveal the dial. She pried open the new compartment. Inside was photograph of her, clad in period garb. He’d apparently taken it from one of the monitors in the chronsole room. Theo had been carrying her with him all the time, and she’d never known.

Cynda dug for her own interface and hunted for that tiny catch. It was there, hidden unless you were looking for it. The compartment sprung open. Instead of her face, it was Theo’s. He was clad in a suit, his handsome features reminding her of the last time she’d seen him. She lingered over the image. His athletic build, strong jaw, bright eyes and dark hair. Then she saw the inscription.

To my beloved Jacynda

There is no other in my heart.

Yours through time,

Theo

Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t fight the chest-wrenching sobs or the tears, but let them flow, wetting her hands, her chest, the interface.

She’d put history back on track, and it had destroyed them in the process.

“Why?” she cried. “I did what I was supposed to do. Why him?”

Silence. Time was known for that. It picked at your bones like a scavenger, yet demanded you worship it like an omnipotent god.

Her interface vibrated, and she jumped. It was a message from Hopkins, which meant GuvNet was finally online.

Get to the corner of Commercial and Whitechapel Street fastest way possible.

She wanted to ask if they’d found Theo, but it would take too long to open up a link and type out the question. Instead, she wiped the tears out of her eyes, knelt, and made the hop.

Hopkins was pacing again, back and forth like a windup toy. “What took you so long?”

She wasn’t going there. “You found him?”

He swiped a hand across his mouth in frustration. “Not yet. Copeland sent a ransom demand to TEM Enterprises—we give him Defoe or…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence. “Everyone’s going ballistic back home. That’s why I need you.”

“For what?”

“I’ve set the others out in a grid pattern around the borders of the East End. I need you to help. Maybe we can triangulate Morrisey’s position using the interfaces.”

“Theo doesn’t have an active ESR Chip,” she said, crestfallen.

“I know. They’re too easy to find and remove. We’ve learned that the hard way.” The Rover’s interface buzzed. He flipped open the dial. “All right!” he crowed. “Now we get to work.”

None of this made sense. “What’s going on?”

“Morrisey’s chip is passive. Klein wouldn’t let him come here without one. It won’t register unless it’s activated by a specific code. Guv can do that once we’re in position. As soon as the chip’s active, we just need to zero in on it to locate your boss.”

Her fragile hope collapsed. “Our interfaces are too short range for this, Hopkins. We only get about twenty feet in any direction.”

“Guv will use our combined interfaces to form a low power transmission grid and they’ll give us a boost from home. It’ll take longer this way, bouncing the signals back and forth, but it’ll work,” he reassured. “Don’t worry, Lassiter, we’ll find him.”

Hope struggled to its feet again, brushing off its bruised knees.

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

Cynda studied the grid pattern on her watch dial, fidgeting while the painstaking process unfolded. Once the passive ESR Chip had been triggered, the five interfaces worked in unison to triangulate its position.

“This is taking forever,” Mr. Spider groused.

He was right. Something told her that if Theo was still alive, he didn’t have that much time. According to her interface, he was in a particular section of Whitechapel—an area she knew intimately. The dial changed again—down to a few streets.

“Screw this,” she said, and performed a side-hop into a nearby alley.

The Angel Pub on Whitechapel High Street was packed, a raucous din cascading out the front door. Watching the dial’s reaction, Cynda edged past the watering hole and farther down the street.

Then she stopped and waited until the dial updated. The location was behind her. She hurried back and then continued down the street. Again, the location was behind her. This time she turned left into Angel Alley, the noisome passage at the side of the pub. Like most of the alleys in Whitechapel, this one doubled as a latrine for those who wanted to make room for one more pint.

“This is really bad,” the spider lamented, ducking under her shawl. His voice muffled, he added, “Makes all my eyes water.”

Cynda covered her nose with a handkerchief, moving resolutely forward. The passage was narrow, bordered on both sides by brick buildings.
A perfect place for an ambush.
Only the thought of Theo kept her going.

Partway along, she passed a pile of refuse, a tattered tarp piled up against the wall. The dial was still catching up, recalibrating her position in relation to the other interfaces, bouncing signals between each of them and 2058’s advanced technology. It was like trying to make a phone call to Mars using a piece of string and two coconuts.

“Come on!” she snarled. He was here somewhere. The grid pattern refreshed itself. She spun around and hurried back, only to stop at the trash pile. On impulse, she illuminated it with the glow from her watch. Three fingers were barely visible protruding from the edge of the canvas. Frantic, Cynda yanked back the tarp.

“Theo!” He was curled in the fetal position, his clothes shredded. She knelt and touched his hand. Cold.

One finger slowly uncurled in response.

“Yes!” She yanked the Dinky Doc out of her pocket and placed it against his neck.
Hypothermia. Profound shock. Multiple internal injuries.
Any other man would be dead, it was just his superior physical condition that had kept him alive this long.

“And you,” the spider remarked, crawling out from under the shawl. “Love is a powerful reason to hang around.”

Still, that edge was quickly fading. To her horror, Theo’s body began to shift form, becoming what he might have looked liked as a boy. Then he changed to a face she knew well:
Chris.
Her heart nearly stopped.

“Not good,” Mr. Spider said.

“No kidding.” Transitives shifted like that when they were losing control, like Keats that night in the carriage.
When they’re dying.

She let the Dinky Doc do what it thought best.

“Come on, Theo.” He shifted again, to her form, and then back to himself. “Come on, guy. You can make it.”

Boot steps crunched in the passageway. She tensed.

“Lassiter?”

She signed in relief: it was Hopkins. “Here!” she called out. “I found him!”

The junior Rover skidded to a halt at her side, dropping to his knees. Between the two of them, they hauled Theo to a seated position. She winced at the sight. His left arm dangled uselessly. Blood had clotted on one side of his face from a jagged cut, and it appeared his nose was broken. Blood stained his shirt, his trousers, even his boots.

“Oh my God.” Hopkins swallowed hard. “We need to get him home.”

“No,” she replied. “He’s too cold for the transfer. We’ll take him to Alastair. Once he’s stabilized, then we can move him.”

A low moan issued from the torn man’s mouth. “Ja…cynda?”

She moved in close. “You got it in one.”

“Cope…land,” he murmured. “Neuro…”

“Neuro-blocker?”

A faint nod.

“That’s how he got me,” Hopkins explained. “I was trying to get my breath one minute, and the next I had a bullet in the heart. I can still hear him laughing.”

Fury spiraled within her, coiling like a venomous snake. Copeland didn’t have the guts to fight man to man, so he’d downed his victims with technology.

“He’ll do the same to you if you’re not careful,” Mr. Spider advised, looking down from her shoulder at the wounded man.

We’ll see.

“Why didn’t Copeland just kill him?” Hopkins whispered.

To her chagrin, Theo overheard the question. “Don’t know,” he gasped. “Gave them money. Told them to…” he coughed hard, “throw me in Thames.”

Like Chris.

“Put me in wagon. They got drunk. I escaped.” He turned slowly toward her, trying to peer at her through his swollen eyelids. “Knew you’d…find me.”

Her heart trembled. “Damn right. Stay alive, okay? You die on me, and I’ll be really pissed.”

The swollen eyelids blinked slowly, painfully. “Too much…paperwork.” Her laughter was a trade-off for tears. Cynda pressed the Dinky Doc to his neck once more. The readings had marginally improved. At least he wasn’t shifting in front of Hopkins.

More boots in the passageway as the other Guv agents arrived. Cynda was grateful when Hopkins took charge, ordering them to find some way to get the wounded man to Alastair’s house.

“We’ll get things squared away,” the junior Rover assured her.