Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (63 page)

“I must bring Mrs. Butler and her son here. This is an amazing feat of architecture,” Alastair said.

Cynda did a slow three hundred sixty degree turn while Keats and Alastair watched, each with smiles in place. “Wow. It’s huge.”

“When it was originally built in Hyde Park, it was nearly eighteen hundred feet long and just over one hundred feet high,” Keats announced proudly. “Now it’s even larger.”

“Look at that!” Cynda proclaimed, pointing at a tall glass fountain.

“It was made by a firm from Birmingham and has more than four tons of glass in it,” Keats said, this time consulting a brochure.

Victorian ingenuity. Why this time period had gotten under her skin. She’d originally hated it but now it was like a beloved old aunt you couldn’t wait to visit. It was the improbable marriage of stuffy manners paired with an indomitable spirit. A spirit that said anything is possible if you put your mind to it.

As she gaped in wonder, people wandered around them. All were dressed in their finest clothes, whether that be a simple gown or something far more elegant. Children laughed or stared in astonishment at the displays.

Alastair touched her elbow. “Is this still there in…?”

She shook her head. “You’ve got about another fifty years to enjoy it.”

“Oh. Perhaps someday I’ll bring my children and grandchildren here,” Alastair exclaimed.

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, my friend,” Keats remarked.

“How so?”

“I would suggest you bring Miss Hanson first. That way you’ll have a better chance of making the other visits sometime down the line.”

Cynda giggled. “He has a point. Besides, when you bring those grandkids here, you can tell them your best friend kept this from being destroyed.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Keats replied.

She held out both arms and they took them, walking three abreast. Cynda couldn’t help but notice some of the women shooting her envious looks.

“I’m leaving right after this,” she told them. “It’s time for me to go home.”

“We thought that might be the case,” the doctor replied. “You have a life there, a future, one that holds a great deal of promise.”

“That wasn’t always the case,” she admitted.

“I know,” he replied. “That’s why I’m so happy for you.”

“This Morrisey person, does he love you?” Keats blurted.

“Keats,” Alastair protested. “That’s a very personal question.”

“I know, but…”

Cynda squeezed the former sergeant’s hand. “Yes, he does love me, and I love him.”

Keats tilted his head in thought. “Well then, it will be all right,” he proclaimed. He gestured with his free hand. “Come along, I’ll show you the Medieval Court. It is very striking.”

As they strolled, Alastair mused, “When I look back on it, I have no regrets for how it’s fallen out. I still work with the poor, and yet now I truly make a difference.”

“Even the future king knows your name,” Keats jested.

“Oh, did I tell you?” the doctor asked. “Reuben has arranged for us to go to Edinburgh so I may meet Dr. Joseph Bell. Can you believe that?”

“That’s fabulous, Alastair. You’ll learn a lot from him.” She turned toward the former detective-sergeant. He’d lost the most of any of them. “What of you, Jonathon?” she asked.

“Well, I would have liked to be chief inspector, but that’s not in the cards now. As for my future, the jury is still out on that.”

“I suspect it will be just fine,” Cynda replied.

“I sometimes have my doubts,” he replied.

“Excuse me, sir?”

They turned as one.

“Are you the fellow in the paper?” a young man asked, addressing Keats.

“I am,” he replied, instantly ill at ease.

“It’s him!” the man said to a group of people. “It’s the man who stopped the bombings!”

There were tentative smiles, and then someone gave a cheer. Others followed. Keats’ face went crimson, his eyes darting around in extreme discomfort.

“Excuse me, but my friend here, Dr. Montrose, was involved as well,” he informed them, gesturing toward Alastair. “He put himself at great personal risk.”

“Don’t confuse them,” the doctor replied.

Cynda broke ranks with the pair, turning to face them. She began to clap.

“Bravo!” she shouted. Heads turned. People began to gravitate toward the noise. “Bravo!”

“What’s it all about?” someone asked. The news began to spread.

Not everyone clapped. Some remembered Keats’ face from when he was on trial. Luckily, those who
did
appreciate his heroic efforts made up for those who didn’t.

When it was over, Keats was mopping his forehead with a handkerchief.

“How embarrassing,” he murmured, his face still crimson. Cynda could see he’d been moved by the gesture.

“Very extraordinary,” Alastair remarked. “I shall always remember this moment.”

Cynda took their arms again. “You’d better get used to it, gents. The pair of you has just begun to take the Empire by storm.”

~••~••~••~

2058 A.D.

TEM Enterprises

The moment the transfer stabilized and she was able to stand, Cynda heaved a tremendous sigh of relief. She was home, not off-timed into the center of a volcano or the Thames at high tide. Given the nature of the people she’d thwarted, either of those options might have become reality.

Ralph was behind the chronsole, waiting for her. His glasses twinkled in the overhead lights. As soon as the pod door opened, he called out, “Hey!”

“Hey, yourself,” she said. This reminded her of the old days, before it had all gone wrong.

“Welcome back to TEM Enterprises,” he announced. “Heard about Copeland’s end.” He issued a thumbs-up.

“That seems to be everyone’s opinion.”

Cynda wedged herself in the time pod door to allow the disorientation to pass, methodically going through the Orientation to Place technique. Unlike Guv’s chronsole room, this one was pleasant. Artwork on the walls, some sort of flowering vine on a trellis that exuded a faint hint of jasmine. A light piece of Baroque music in the background. Classic.

Like Theo.

Once her head stopped spinning, she made her way to the chronsole, still unsteady. Ralph unwrapped a candy bar and pushed it toward her across the counter. She took a bite, and then frowned. Chocolate just didn’t taste good anymore. She ate it anyway.

“I hear you resigned,” her friend said. “What’s that all about?”

“Theo and I are…” She waggled an eyebrow suggestively.

A pensive frown appeared. “You mean…? You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Yes. I’m in love with him.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Ralph exclaimed. “First time for everything.”

She playfully punched him in the arm. He responded with a big hug.

“I don’t agree with your taste,” he said, “but if you’re happy, I’ll deal.”

They hugged harder.

Fulham sailed through the chronsole room door. “Welcome back, Miss Lassiter,” he said.

She grinned. “Hello, Fulham. How are you?”

“Quite well. Your return will certainly help.”

She followed him out into the corridor, toting her Gladstone.

“Mr. Morrisey has ordered that you are to see the company physician first thing. He is particularly concerned that your health remains sound.”

“Later,” she said, rolling her eyes. “So where is our fearless leader?”

“At TPB. It’s why I sent the message for you to return at this particular point in time.”

Her footsteps faltered. “Is everything okay?” Surely Ralph would have known if it wasn’t.

“Going very well. M.A. Fletcher is the new chairman. The boss is there for a meeting. They’re trying to get the truth out of ex-Chairman Davies.” Fulham gave her a sidelong glance. “Your presence might do the trick.”

“Consider it done.”

“I’ll arrange a grav-car,” he offered.

“No need,” she said, turning on her heel. “I’ll go the high tech way. Tell the boss to save me a seat.”

“That would violate a number of rules,” Fulham observed with a wry smirk.

She smirked back, pulling out her interface. “Yes, it would, but I have a legend to maintain.”

2058 A.D.

Time Protocol Board Complex

Her grand arrival in the central hall of the TPB complex shocked a number of bystanders. Once the disorientation passed, she ignored the curious stares and marched over to the gleaming reception counter. The AdminBot behind the counter monitored her every move, sizing her up with electronic precision.

Cynda knew what was coming: a lecture about unauthorized arrivals within a public building, along with a citation of all the statutes she’d just broken.

Before the thing could start, she said, “I’m Jacynda Lassiter and I’m supposed to be in a meeting with Chairman Fletcher. Where is it?”

The thing whirred for a moment, then beeped. “Scan ESR Chip,” it demanded.

“Don’t have one. Where’s the meeting?”

“Scan ESR Chip,” the bot repeated, mimicking the bored personality of many human front desk assistants. “No entrance allowed without valid identification.”

Cynda leaned over the counter to rap her knuckles on its shiny silver head.

“You’re not paying attention. I don’t have a chip. So where’s the meeting?”

The bot chirped and beeped faster now. As the situation deteriorated, she felt her interface vibrate.
Fulham.
As she’d hoped, the watch dial said he’d been in contact with the boss, then told her precisely where to find Theo within the complex. As an aside, Fulham wished her good luck getting there.

Piece of cake.
Bots were nothing compared to knife-wielding maniacs or deluded men intent on immolating history. Well, except Sigmund. For a bot, he was cool.

“Never mind,” she replied, clicking the watch closed. “I know where I need to go. Have a mindless day.”

As she headed down the hall past wide-eyed bystanders, she began to hum
Rule Britannia
just for spite. As she’d anticipated, there was the whir of the bot’s wheels as it hurried to catch up with her, spewing warnings nonstop now.

“Halt! Unauthorized intrusion. Return to the lobby immediately!” it chirped.

Cynda turned on a heel and glared at it. Her brother had trashed a couple of these things. How hard could it be?

It skidded to a halt. “Return to—”

“Oh, bugger off,” she said, taking a step toward it. Sensing the threat, the bot flew into reverse, nearly mowing down some poor fellow behind it. A red light began to whirl on the top of the thing. It was summoning Security.

Cynda laughed all the way to the room.

To her glee, her entrance was an eye-opener. She was in full Victorian garb, toting a Gladstone bag, and equipped with enough attitude to power a grav-rail station. After 1888 this was nothing. In fact, it was fun.

She slid into the empty chair next to Theo.

“Hello there,” she said.

“Welcome home, Jacynda. I’ve missed you.”

Bet you have.
She clunked the Gladstone on the floor.

“Lassiter,” Senior Agent Klein said. “Quite an entrance. As usual.”

“Give it a bit. The front desk bot is pretty annoyed. It summoned Security.”

“Is it still in one piece?” Theo asked in amusement.

“For now.” He sought out her hand under the table and gave it a squeeze. She returned it. She’d missed him so much.

Mindful of their audience, Cynda slid her eyes toward the head of the table. “Chairman Fletcher,” she greeted with a nod of respect.

“Lassiter,” Fletcher acknowledged. “Don’t remember your name being on the roster, but I’ll add you to the agenda.” She tapped on the holo-keyboard in front of her. “I’ll cancel the security bots while I’m at it.” A few more taps and then she looked up. “I think you know almost everyone else, except for Mr. Randolph.”

Cynda catalogued those around the table. Besides Theo and Klein, there were Johns Hopkins, Ex-Chairman Davies and the aforementioned Mr. Randolph. Probably Davies’ legal mouthpiece.

“Hi, Hopkins,” she called down the table. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad,” he replied, sending her a grin. “You?”

“Never been better.”

“Your timing’s good,” Fletcher remarked. “Mr. Davies is explaining to us what happened in 1888.”

Cynda leaned back in her chair. “Can’t wait to hear this.”

She gave him two minutes. She counted it out in her head. She could do that now that 1888 was right again. And in those two minutes, he’d avoided responsibility with every single word.

“We were solely concerned with returning Defoe to our time. He was out of control,” Davies said, leveling his eyes at Cynda. “Much like Miss Lassiter.”

“That was the only reason you had your people in ’88?” Fletcher challenged.

“Yes.”

He’d stepped right in it.

Cynda synced up her interface to the terminal embedded in the tabletop, waiting for the digital record to advance to the precise moment before Copeland appeared in Mitre Square. Davies watched her like she’d just pulled a knife at an ice cream parlor.

Not a bad idea.

She dug out the blade and placed it in front of her.

“What is that?” Fletcher asked, peering at it curiously.

“Amputation knife. They think Jack the Ripper used one like this.”

“Wicked,” Fletcher exclaimed, smiling.

“Sure is. Copeland brought it to our meeting in Mitre Square.”

“My God,” Theo murmured. He’d known of her injuries, but not what had inflicted them.

“Copeland?” Davies repeated, as if it was the first time he’d heard the name.