Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (58 page)

“Which is?”

“Come back to ’058 and testify about the Null Mem project.”

Her enemy’s face stiffened as he shifted stance. He twisted the blade in his hand, a nervous gesture. “Never heard of them.”

“Then how did you know there was more than one?” Her foe’s eyes narrowed. “How about Drogo?” she pushed.

“How’d you hear about him?”

“Chris had the name on him when he died.”

A snort. “Probably Mimes. He was always making notes. The kid probably got hold of one. I knew I should have checked his pockets.”

“Why did Davies orphan the Null Mems in the time stream?” she pressed, playing a hunch.

“What better way to hide your mistakes?”

She took another step forward, though it put her closer to the blade. In response, it tilted in her direction, a taut line of lethal steel.

“How do you know about the crazies?” Copeland demanded.

“I’m one of them now. Didn’t your puppet masters tell you that?”

His expression held, but she saw something flicker in his eyes. A hint of fear, maybe?
Yes.
The mercenary was afraid of her. Of what she’d become.

“That’s a lie,” he hissed. “You went into Rebound.”

“I have the mark on my temple to prove it.” She dropped her voice to a near whisper, beckoning with a forefinger like an eager lover. “Come closer, I’ll show you.”

He shifted his weight to his left foot, telegraphing his move. His right foot shot out, aiming directly for her chest. She forced her arm down, blocking the leg. Using the momentum, she tried to spin toward her opponent, to strike him in the ribs with the baton. It only brought her closer to the blade, which raked across her left cheek.

They broke apart, eyeing each other.

“The geek freak taught you some moves,” he said, grinning.

“Among other things,” she replied. The air between them began to sparkle and pulsate like a heartbeat. She blinked her eyes, but it didn’t help.

“You give me Defoe and I’ll make it easy for you,” Copeland offered.

“Did you tell Morrisey that?” she asked, wiping the blood off her face.

“Sure did. He didn’t listen.”

Copeland casually shifted the weapon to his right hand. That changed everything. As if sensing her uncertainty, he began to test her defenses. Jab, move, jab and move again. A moment later, he kicked at her, high. She turned at the last presenting less of a target. The foot clipped her arm.

She recovered, but not fast enough. Another kick, square in the shoulder. The blade moved in and scraped down the metal baton, past her hand, slicing downward. For a second she could feel nothing, then a burning slice as he scored deep into her flesh the length of her forearm.

He rammed his shoulder into her, throwing her off balance. The baton slipped from her bloody fingers, tumbling onto the bricks.

Before she could move, Copeland was between her and the weapon.

His cold laughter echoed off the buildings. “That’s better,” he said, taking random swipes at her, like an actor in a play. “Where’s Rover One?”

“Don’t know!” she said, feeling the blood dripping from her fingers and the constant throb of the wound with each heartbeat. “No one does.”

“Wrong answer.”

When he grew near, she kicked out, hard, striking him in the leg. He danced back with a slight limp.

“Good one. You’re making this fun.”

Another swipe, too close this time. She kept trying to maneuver so she could retrieve the baton, but Copeland was always in the way.

“Forget it,” her delusion urged. “Remember what Morrisey taught you.”

At the mention of his name, the ants exploded into life with a throaty yell that nearly deafened her. Cynda moved forward, positioning her hands as she’d been taught. She centered herself, pulling that fury into her soul.

“Too easy,” Copeland said. As he moved forward, seeking to press his advantage, she circled her hands. He watched her warily, trying to judge her next move.

When he lashed at her with the knife, she blocked the thrust with her left arm. Curling her right hand into her chest, she formed a fist, then shifted her weight onto her back foot.

At the last second she relaxed, drawing energy from the ground. Spiraling it into her body as she moved her weight forward, her right fist shot out, the blow smashing into his chest at heart level. Copeland gave a choked gasp and then staggered backwards, stunned, the knife still firmly in his grasp.

“Bitch,” he wheezed. He spat. It was bright blood.

Cynda fell back on instinct. The spin kick seemed to last for a century, a perfect arc of body, mind and ferocious will. Her boot caught him square above the diaphragm. In the stillness she heard an explosive grunt, then the thick snap of ribs. The knife tumbled to the ground with a clatter.

He took one step backward, then two, his face gray. Then he folded.

Cynda kicked the knife aside, retrieved her baton, and then knelt behind him, pulling him onto his back.

Do it!
the ants screamed.

Despite the torment in her left arm, she applied the baton across his throat and heaved back with all her weight. Copeland’s eyes bulged, his fingers clawing hopelessly at the metal. Feet hammered against the pavement. Time slowed. His face turned crimson, then blue-purple. There was the sharp tang of urine.

In the midst of it all, the scent of orange spice tea came to her, overpowering everything else in the square. She was in the pagoda, watching the sun rise. Theo’s resonant voice echoed around her.

In the end, only you can decide who you truly are, what you stand for, what you hold most dear. No one else has that power, Jacynda. No one.

“Ah, hell.” Cynda jerked away the baton, her hands shaking so hard it slipped to the ground. Her foe’s chest moved like a broken sail, his breathing patchy. She retrieved the Dinky Doc and checked for damage: it was significant. Crushed ribs, bruised heart. The list went on. She let the device do what it could. Cynda hunted through his pockets for his interface. She didn’t need the time band—he was too incapacitated to put up a fight. When she found the watch, she executed the windings and then secured it to his wrist. Closing his trembling fist around it, she staggered backward, dizzy.

Copeland’s eyes widened in abject terror. He shook his head, trying to mouth words.

“Say hi to Klein for me,” she told him.

Chris’ murderer vanished in those pinwheels of light the Ascendant had found so compelling: a devil headed home. Guv would take it from there.

This one’s for you, Theo.

It took some effort to adjust the Dinky Doc one-handed. Once it was set, she pressed it against her neck and tried to relax. The dizziness evaporated, along with the ache in her chest. The wound would clot quicker now, but she still felt weird. It would take some time for the neural med to dissipate.

When she went to collect the knife, it was gone.

Cynda’s eyes tracked upward. Satyr was caressing the blade reverentially.

“Well done. I am impressed,” he remarked. “You sure you don’t want a job as an assassin? I’m short a couple.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since the beginning.” He spread his hands. “I couldn’t resist following you. You’re so entertaining, Twig.”

Her attention remained on the knife. “Is there a new Ascendant?”

“Yes, they elected Cartwright since he cast the first vote. He’s a very malleable soul. He’ll live longer than most of them.”

“What about the rest of the explosives?”

“The previous Ascendant was ever so kind to tell me where they’re located right before he met his end. I dispatched an anonymous note to your Sergeant Keats. I would guess that at this very moment the cache is being retrieved.”

Keats will be the hero, again.
“Thanks.”

Satyr nodded. He scrutinized the blade in his hand. “Fine, isn’t it? I see why the Ripper liked it. Too unwieldy in my opinion, but then he was a novice.”

“Novice?”

“All that hacking. Second-rate,” he observed, shaking his head in disapproval. “The mark of a true psychopath.”

“This from a guy who cut off Ahearn’s balls?”

Satyr looked hurt. “He deserved that. I left him near Traitor’s Gate for a reason.”

Her puzzled frown made him explain.

“He’d always had his eye on Fiona Flaherty, even though he was married. He kept after her. When she threatened to tell her father, Ahearn took his revenge. He followed her back to Effington’s house and sold her out to Effington for a few coins. When she resisted Hugo’s advances, he revealed her true identity to me.”

“So that’s why you chopped him up.”

A nod. “He betrayed his employer’s trust. He deserved what he got.”

“But you told the Ascendant about Fiona.”

The assassin scowled. “That was a mistake. He promptly ordered me to kidnap her as leverage against her father. I did not approve of that. It was not proper.”

“Didn’t fit your code of honor?”

When there was no reply, she realized that’s exactly what he meant.

The last of adrenalin bled away. Suddenly she felt washed out, like she hadn’t slept for months. She was too tired to fight anymore. She just wanted to see Theo.

A triple beep came from her interface, reminding her that the rest of the world was still on schedule. “The constable is due here in three minutes. Does our truce still hold?”

“Certainly, Twig.”

Cynda nodded. Taking him at his word, she collapsed the baton. Satyr dropped the knife and gave it a kick; it halted at her feet. She struggled to jam it in inside the Gladstone. Leaving it behind would open up an entirely new branch of Ripper investigation.

“Allow me.” To her unease, Satyr stepped to her side, knelt and inserted the knife into the bag. She threw the medication patch inside and he snapped the bag shut.

Without a word, he pulled out his handkerchief, then expertly tied it around the wound. It slowly soaked up the blood. “Best I can do,” he said. “Looks very nasty.”

As she stood, she scooped up the coat. Her interface sat open on the ground. He picked it up and for a moment, she thought he intended to keep it. Surely he knew what it was. Instead, he handed it to her.

“Yours, I believe.” She clicked the stem to halt the recording.

“They’re going to need a new female on the Twenty.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.”

When Satyr helped her with her coat, carefully positioning it to allow for her injured arm, their eyes met.

“We’re kindred spirits now,” he said, his voice curiously mellow. “You were one heartbeat away from murder. Revenge was within your grasp, yet you backed away. You kept your humanity.”

“It was very close,” she admitted.

“It always is.”

As Cynda put the baton into an inside pocket, it thunked against the spare interface. She made the decision in a heartbeat. She tossed the pocket watch to Satyr. He deftly caught it, blinking in confusion.

“You need a Dinky Doc?”

“No. The clueless Rover was so kind as to lend me his.”

He clicked open the dial and then looked back up. She had just given him the means to go anywhere, any time.

“They can follow me if I use this,” Satyr replied, gesturing toward the interface.

“It’s untraceable. When the heat gets too much, go somewhere they can’t find you.”

He stared at her, confusion etched on his face. She could imagine what was parading through his mind.

“Why?” he asked.

“I’m feeling generous,” she joked.

“Tell me why,” he repeated, more emphatically this time.

“Because not all monsters are evil.”

~••~••~••~

Saturday, 10 November, 1888

Alastair looked up when the clinic door swung open. One of Hopkins’ somber men stepped inside, allowing a figure to pass. It seemed frail by comparison to the bulky guard.

“Jacynda?”

He was across the room in an instant, taking inventory as he moved. She looked unnaturally pale, her eyes hollow. There was a cut on her cheek. Then he noticed how she was cradling her left arm. The fingers on that hand were thickly coated with dried blood.

He put an arm around her waist and guided her toward a chair.

“No. Must see Theo first,” she murmured.

“You are in shock and need—”

“Theo first,” she repeated.

He gave in and took her into his office, where the patient rested on the cot under a mound of warmed blankets. She sank into the chair slowly, oblivious to anything but him.

“How is he?” she asked, her voice more fragile now.

“Much better. He’s warming up, bit by bit. I’ve stabilized him as much as I can. Your people will have to do the rest.”

Jacynda leaned over and placed a kiss on the patient’s forehead, then murmured something in his ear. Then she looked up at Alastair.

“Now you can work on my arm.”

Alastair cleared his throat. “Tell me if you can feel me touching each of your fingers in turn,” he ordered. He carefully performed his exam, taking care not to hurt her any further.

“They’re fine,” she said. “How’s Keats?”

“Doing as well as expected. I received a note about an hour ago—he’s located the remainder of the explosives and is in the process of moving them to a secure location.”

Cynda smiled to herself: Satyr had come through. “That’s excellent news. Will it save Keats’ job?”

“Not from his perspective. He’s already given the chief inspector his resignation.”

“I’m truly sorry to hear that.”

The door that led to the parlour swung open as Mrs. Butler pushed her way in. She was carrying a tray of instruments.

“I boiled them as you asked, sir.”