The watch continued to reverberate like an irate bee trapped in a glass jar. Until she had something to report, it was best TIC
didn’t know of her physical condition. Once a Time Rover reached the point of no return—and they all did eventually—they were pulled from the field. Even Harter Defoe, the greatest of their lot, had been forced to quit. From what she’d heard, he’d not opted for a desk job, but vanished into legend. A classy Exit Stage Left after a career any Time Rover would envy.
Unfortunately, TIC’s desk jockeys now disappeared in sync with the company’s dwindling bank account. If Cynda couldn’t time travel, she’d be without a job and a place to live. She’d end on her parents’ doorstep, Off-Grid. Then she’d have to deal with her brother.
I’ll find Turner, then report. It won’t be that hard.
By the time she’d laced her boots and donned her hat, gas lamps were lit as far as the eye could see. Cynda wound her way north to Wentworth, past the Victoria Workingmen’s Home, and across the street to The Princess Alice. A three-story building with a classic bow front, it was reputed to be a favorite haunt of one of the Ripper suspects. If Cynda’s luck held, Turner might be loitering there, observing the locals in their natural habitat.
Pushing her way past a couple of tipsy customers, she catalogued faces. The pub’s interior reeked of cheap gin, unwashed bodies and cigar smoke.
Shove off, luv, you’re blockin’ the way, a gruff voice announced. She obliged and moved further inside. In this sort of atmosphere she had to rely on the pocket watch. The interface would sniff the assembled bodies like a hightech bloodhound, hunting for Turner’s ESR Chip. Everyone from ’057 had one. You got your Essential Subject Record Chip inserted at birth. Sort of like toting a portable filing cabinet with all your personal data.
Without them, the PSI units were useless. In this case, no vibration from the watch meant no tourist.
And so it was. Pushing her way out the front doors, she set off for the next pub. A beer wagon lumbered by, the vehicle creaking under the load. She passed a young boy industriously polishing a gentleman’s shoes while the customer scanned the evening newspaper.
Cynda paused at an intersection, blinking a couple of times in hopes of clearing her vision. Instead, the hallucinatory lightning fired again, bolts exploding around her as if hurled by a playful god. Preoccupied with the light show, she stepped in front of a carriage. A warning cry brought her back to reality. She lurched to the sidewalk with all the grace of an elephant on roller skates.
A man eyed her with concern, his grizzled face in need of a shave. You best be careful, miss!
Thank you. He nodded and continued on his way.
This is insanity, she murmured to herself. The East End was a dangerous place, and doubly so for those who saw things that weren’t there.
Cynda retraced her steps to the boarding house, desperate for more sleep. Another day wouldn’t matter either way, as long as she and the tourist were out of ’88 before the 26th of the month.
TIC would be upset, but they’d have to live with it.
Chapman Inquest News! a newsboy called. She walked by him, ignoring his patter. Police say murderer might strike again!
Cynda halted in her tracks. Someone collided with her and issued a stern rebuke in blistering language. She swung around, fishing the needed penny out of a pocket and taking the paper.
Thanks, ma’am, the lad replied, tapping his cap in appreciation.
Thank you, she said without thinking. Positioning herself under the nearest gas lamp, she squinted at the masthead.