Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (59 page)

“Thank you, Mrs. Butler. Is Davy here?”

“No. Still out sellin’ papers. I bet he’s makin’ a fortune, what with all that went on today.” She looked at Cynda, then at her arm. “Good heavens.”

“When he comes back, I need to send him out for some supplies,” Alastair explained. “I wasn’t anticipating a full house tonight.”

Cynda smirked and that earned her a raised eyebrow.

The moment the door closed behind the housekeeper, Hopkins strode in. Once he was sure only the doc was present, he let loose.

“Why did you take off on us?” he demanded. “What the hell have you been up to?”

Alastair started at the oath, and shot him a frown.

Cynda eyed the junior Rover. “I was busy sending Copeland home.”

“Home? You caught him?” he blurted.

“Yes.” She delivered her own frown. “So where were you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I sent you a message asking you to join the party. You never showed.”

The Rover’s anger faded. He flipped open his watch, twisted the dial, then shook his head. “There’s nothing here.”

She pulled her interface out with the free hand and offered it to him. He accessed the files. “I didn’t get this.” His interface vibrated.

Hopkins raised his head. “No, no, he knew I wanted to be in on the capture.” Then he swore. “The message just arrived.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Well, it’s done. He’s at Guv.”

“Copeland’s finally ours,” Hopkins muttered. Then he smiled. “Thanks. I owe you one. I can’t wait to be there for the trial.”

Cynda turned her attention to the doc. “So how bad is it?”

“You’re very fortunate there is no muscle or tendon damage,” he responded. “Still, it will need suturing.”

“Then sew it up.” She’d already dosed herself with the Dinky Doc. The pain level was manageable.

“You’ll have a nasty scar if I do.”

She looked down at the long slash. “That’s okay.”
I want to remember this night for the rest of my life.

Despite the painkiller, she winced when he applied the disinfectant. Raw acid would have been more welcome.

“That’s probably what he’s using,” Mr. Spider joked. He was positioned on Theo’s pillow, feet tucked under him like a housecat.

Hopkins was getting itchy. “What about Morrisey?”

“We’ll send Theo home after the doc is done playing seamstress.”

“Stop moving,” Alastair grumbled.

“Sorry.” The tugging on the skin continued as he redoubled his efforts with the needle. Despite the Dinky Doc, it stung, making her eyes water.

“You done yet?”

Alastair glowered in response.

Apparently not.

Oblivious, Theo slept through her arrangements. Cynda set his interface, clipped the chain to his wrist and placed it in his hand. Then she wound a bandage around it, tying it off so he wouldn’t lose contact with the watch. No contact, no 2058. Finally, she gave him a kiss, knowing he’d not feel it. The hole in her chest grew wider.

Hopkins knelt next to the bed. “Klein wants you to stay here, make sure everything’s secure. He needs time to settle things down, start proceedings against TPB. If you return now, it’ll just muddy the waters.”

“What about Morrisey?”

“TPB won’t touch him, not in his condition,” Hopkins reassured. “Not once they realize Copeland is to blame for all this.”

Not all of it.
“Did Klein say anything about him?”

“No and I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to tip our hand to TPB. I don’t think they can listen in our interface traffic, but you never know.”

She nodded. “I’ll stay here until I get the all clear.”

The young man gently placed a hand on her uninjured arm. “Thanks. Having Copeland out of circulation means a lot me.”

Cynda nodded, too tired to talk. Instead, she rose and moved out of the way as he clicked Theo’s watch shut.

10…9…8

“Let’s go!” he ordered. Hopkins and the three other Guv agents vanished. The transfer effect began to form around Theo. Then he was gone.

I’ll be home soon, now that I have a reason.

“I’ll never grow accustomed to that,” Alastair said, shielding his eyes from the doorway. “How soon will we know if he made it in good shape?”

“Soon.”
I hope.
She gnawed the inside of her lip raw until her interface lit up.

Now you owe me three beers.

“What does that mean?” Alastair asked, looking over her shoulder.

“It means everything’s going to be fine,” she whispered.

Intermittent sleep, endless side-hops, the chaos of the last twenty-four hours. They all came to collect their bill. It was a big one.

At Alastair’s suggestion, Cynda pulled herself up the stairs to a spare room, tossed her clothes in random directions, then poured cold water into the basin to remove the remaining blood. Once that was completed, she collapsed into the bed. The feather mattress enfolded her like a mother’s arms, and she sighed into its softness. Stuffing her interface under the pillow was her last conscious act.

Her interface woke her, buzzing incessantly until it dragged her out of her zombie-like state. Then it went quiet. It started up again, nagging at her like an electronic spouse.

“What do you want?” she snarled, digging under the pillow. “I’ve done my bit. Go away!”

More buzzing, followed by something that sounded like one of those old British cop cars. The two tones wavered back and forth, sawing away at her nerves.

Cynda hauled herself to the small desk in the room and logged onto GuvNet. As the screen lit up, she groaned and trudged over to the door, locking it and stuffing a sock in the keyhole. Mrs. Butler, bless her soul, might feel inclined to bring her guest some tea at the wrong moment.

The screen erupted into a blur of type. None of it mentioned Theo. Maybe that was a good sign.

Where have you been?

She had no desire to play nice.
Who’s this?

Who do you think? Is your interface defective?

Had to be Ralph.
Interface fine. Rover isn’t. No sleep.

Suck it up. We got problems.

Is TEM okay?

Healing. Hopkins gave us a full report.

What’s the problem?

The screen lit up.
So where is he?

“He” had to mean Copeland.
Look under the rocks. I sent him to Guv.

Guv doesn’t have him.

That broke her haze immediately.
Transfer at 11:40 or so on 9 November, 1888.

There was a long pause. Too long for good news.

“Come on, guy, this century, will you?” she complained. “I want some more sleep. I’ve earned it.”

“We both have,” her delusion added and then yawned. She leaned back in the chair and started to doze when the response came through.

No go. Transfer diverted.

To where?

Same time, different location.

Anyone else would have panicked. Cynda let out another yawn. The last she’d seen of Copeland, he was in no shape to harm anyone. He wasn’t going to get better overnight, especially not in Victorian London.

Cyn?
Ralph prompted.

I’ll look around.
“When I’m damn good and ready.” Or they could send Hopkins. Why did it always have to be her?

A series of numbers started flying across the screen.

And that meant?
she typed blearily.

Coordinates. It’s where he landed in 1888. Use your interface to pinpoint them.

You can’t tell on your end?

Coordinates still wonky here. Can’t recalibrate until Guv says it’s okay.

Cynda dug around in the room until she could find something to write on, and then made note of the numbers, not quite sure how to store them in the device.

Got them. I’ll be in touch.

TEM says to tell you two words: unfinished business. Whatever that means.

She smiled.
Message received.

Though she’d not been expecting it, a heal shield arrived a few minutes later. She applied the shield to her arm to cover the wound. It would sped the healing, cut the pain and look remarkably like her own skin.

“Thanks, Ralph,” she said, tucking her sleeve around the nearly invisible shield. When it finally evaporated the wound would be healed, though the suture marks would still be there. That was okay.

She set the interface to roust her out at eight in the morning. Until then, she was off-duty.

The coordinates Ralph had given her turned out to be quite specific. London Bridge. As she stood near the railing, feeling the breeze against her face, she checked the interface dial again.

“Another three hundred feet out.” Which put the location in the middle of the Thames.

Copeland wasn’t stupid. He knew not to transfer into water. That was a death sentence.

“He had no choice, I suspect,” someone observed.

Anderson. He hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“So how can you just appear in the middle of a bridge without anyone thinking that’s weird? Except me, of course.”

“You’d be amazed what we humans will ignore,” he replied.

She peered down into the water. “I sent Copeland to…” she waved to indicate the future. “Why did he bounce back here?”

“His
future
bosses did not appreciate his failure, so they diverted him. It’s a very unpleasant way of dealing with failure.”

“That’s why he looked so terrified,” she murmured. “I figured it was because he’d have to face Klein.”

“The Government was the least of his problems.”

“Who are those
future
bosses?”

Anderson leaned against the rail, watching a boat glide underneath the bridge. “We’re not particularly sure. It’s much like here—you can’t quite put your finger on who is pulling the strings.”

“Why didn’t you just tell Morrisey about the coins in the first place?”

“Some things we knew, some things we didn’t. As it was, we’ve done a lot of meddling here, more than we probably should have.”

“What sort of meddling?”

He looked over at her. “I was with Inspector Ramsey throughout the Keats’ investigation. Though he didn’t need much help, I made sure he was aware of any clues he’d missed. I was the one who persuaded the academics to loan you their interfaces, and I convinced the police commissioner to allow you and Morrisey to handle the bombs in the East End.”

“That’s a
lot
of messing around,” she said, astounded. “I thought that was a no-no.”

“It used to be, but now we seem to be involved in the time stream more than ever. I can’t say I like that.”

“We?”

Anderson shook his head. “I’ve told you too much as it is.”

That was fair. “What about Defoe?”

“His mind will never be right again. He must stay in our time. We’ll keep him safe.”

“Theo isn’t going to like that,” she protested.

“We know, but there’s no other choice. We have no idea why our counterparts want him so badly. Until we do, he’s at risk.”

Farther downstream, a boat departed from a landing, heading to the far shore.

She had to ask the question. “Is this how my timeline was supposed to fall out?”

Anderson shook his head. “Much like the doctor and the sergeant, your life is now on a new thread.”

“It was Chris’ death, wasn’t it? Things felt wrong from that point on.”

Anderson nodded. “His accidental death triggered a time swell that rippled through the stream.”

And brought Theo and me together.

She straightened up. “Do me a favor—make sure Defoe attends Adelaide Winston’s funeral.”

The Future opened his mouth in protest, but she waved him off. “That’s not negotiable, Mr. Anderson. That’s what you owe
me
.”

There was a deep sigh. “I will see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” Cynda relaxed, gazing out at the Thames. “Why the Armageddon scenario?”

“It was the opening they needed to replace some of the key figures in Victorian politics with shape-shifters. It would have been easy during the upheaval. There are some who believe the Transitives should reveal themselves before 2062. That’s a mistake, of course, because it significantly alters history.”

“So does London burning like a Yule log. Why not let the shifters come out?” she insisted. “It’s going to happen anyway.”

Anderson shook his head. “The outcome of the Second World War would not have been to our advantage. They play a key part in overthrowing the Axis powers. If they are revealed now, that would not happen. Changes would ripple upstream.” Anderson paused, pitching his voice lower. “It was not a decision we made lightly.”