Chapter 16
2057 A.D.
TEM Enterprises It took Ralph longer than he’d hoped to find the answer––nearly two hours. During the entire time, Morrisey meditated on the artwork. It was a photograph of some remote galaxy, pinwheels of swirling light and shadow circulating around a dark core. Quite interesting, but not worth two hours of anyone’s time.
Before Ralph could figure out how to interrupt him without being rude, Morrisey asked, What is the final count, Mr.Hamilton?
Five Rovers, one tourist.
You’re including Mr. Stone in that number? Ralph nodded.
Morrisey returned to his position behind the low granite table that served as his desk. After performing a couple of stretches, he tossed a small object toward Ralph. It was a nanodrive. TIC’s latest set of access codes. You’ll need them to get into the logs and the IA settings.
Ralph plugged in the drive and logged into TICnet. He noted his access name was Watson. He didn’t remember anyone of that name at TIC. Working his way through the maze of files, he reached the Interface Attributes Cluster.
The files were empty.
Ralph accessed the files again, just in case he’d screwed up.
The Attributes were gone. An icy chill washed through his veins.
Mr. Hamilton? Morrisey quizzed.
Ralph turned. Someone at TIC purged the Interface Attributes settings. I don’t know if it was deliberate, or if some file jockey thought they weren’t needed anymore. Either way, I can’t get the Rovers home without the––
I know, his boss snapped, his face darkening.
God, Ralph muttered, shaking his head. I never thought they’d do that. Without the Interface Attributes, there was no means to communicate with anyone in the Time Stream. No way to initiate a transfer.
TIC had severed the Rovers’ lifelines.
Morrisey’s fingers danced over the holokeyboard in front of him. Ralph heard the characteristic beep of an outbound Vid-Net Mail message. A few seconds later, another beep indicated an answer. His boss exhaled loudly. Apparently, the query hadn’t paid off.
Morrisey grew pensive. In every failing organization, there is someone who has the foresight to cover their arse. Work your contacts. Someone would have made a copy of the Attributes in case there’s an investigation. If you have to offer money to obtain them, do it. If they need other incentives, let me know. Remind them of the gravity of the issue, that orphaning a Rover is a Grade Four Capitol Offense.
Ralph wondered what Morrisey meant by other incentives, but decided not to ask. He mentally generated a list of TIC employees who might be able to help him––starting with Ivan. Could he be…
Who is your mole inside TIC?
A raised eyebrow. I have a number of them.
Ivan, the chron-op?
A nod.
That’s how you got the access codes.
Another nod. Find out what you can as quickly as possible, Mr. Hamilton. History takes a dim view of stranded Rovers.
History isn’t the only one. Ralph repositioned himself in front of the terminal, his backache forgotten, and worked the keys like a man possessed.
There’s a Mr. Keats here for you, Mildred said, her hands nestled inside her apron. From the line of flour marking her left breast, she’d been in the midst of making bread when the visitor arrived.
Thank you, Mildred, but I’m not really in the mood for visitors. Please deliver my apologies, and tell him I’ll see him tomorrow.
As you wish, miss.
Cynda closed her door and leaned against it. Bad news did travel fast. She watched through the window as Keats exited the boarding house. He seemed upset, his strides redoubled.
Shaking her head, Cynda leaned against the windowsill.
Nothing from TIC. By now, she’d figured Thad would be bugging the hell out of her. She stared at the pocket-watch dial, and then flipped the lid closed. Contacting them would only stir things up.
She had two choices: sit in her room and cry all night, or find Chris’ missing tourist. Sitting on the bed, she tightened her bootlaces for what lay ahead. The only way she’d find Samuelson was to put a few more miles on the shoe leather.
For a man on duty, Keats was sucking down the beer in record time. When the publican pointed at the empty and asked if he wanted another, he shook his head. He did want another—quite a few, in fact—but getting drunk wasn’t going to solve his problems.
Things were getting too complicated. Up until this week, all he’d had to worry about was his job. Now there was the business with Fisher and the Transitives, Alastair’s inexplicably petty behavior and the confusing Miss Lassiter. He’d been making too many mistakes: trusting Alastair, for one. Not finding Flaherty for another.
He mentally shook himself out of his reverie and took stock of his surroundings. He was sitting in the Paul’s Head Public House, en mirage in his sailor persona. The pub was doing a brisk business, not all of it legal. This was rough territory, where daydreaming could easily become fatal.
A figure slid into the chair opposite him, beer in hand.
Crowded tonight, the fellow observed.
Always is, Keats mumbled. He didn’t know his informant’s name, only that he worked at one of the stables and was always keen to earn a few bob on the side. Anything new?
A shake of the head. Whatever’s gonna happen must be big.
Why do you think that?
Folks is nervous, the man replied. They’re not sayin’ much.
Fearful like.
Keats snorted. Got that right. He pulled a crown from his pocket and set it under his empty glass. If you hear anything…
I’ll find ya, the man grunted.
A figure passed their table. Keats glanced up, then did a double-take.
Jacynda Lassiter was standing only a few feet away from them, blinking in response to the pall of smoke. She slowly tracked through the room, as if searching for someone.
Keats’ informant followed his gaze. Ah, that’s a right smart one. Not been on the game long, I bet.
The woman in question drifted out the front door. Keats gave a surly nod to his contact and followed her, indignation and worry battling for supremacy. She had refused to meet with him earlier, though according to her landlady she’d been out to dinner with the doctor. Now she was blithely wandering around one of the most infamous parts of Whitechapel, unaccompanied.
Have you no notion where you are? Perhaps she didn’t. She was from New York, after all. He shook his head and continued after her.
After a stop in the Horn of Plenty, she set off along Dorset Street.
He didn’t dare risk revealing his true form on Dossers Street,
as the locals called it. Even constables regarded this patch of pavement with respect bordering on fear.
What are you doing, you silly woman? He pushed on, praying she’d make it to Commercial Street before someone decided to give her a lesson in East End courtesy.
Cynda realized she was in trouble the moment she stepped outside the Horn of Plenty. Her preoccupation had taken her somewhere she shouldn’t be, especially at night. The threat increased with each step. The denizens of Dorset Street openly assessed her. Young, female, alone. Her clothes, though plain, were posh for this neighborhood, painting her as a suitable victim.
Really dumb, Lassiter. Is this what happened to Chris?
Probably not. If he’d been killed on this street, they wouldn’t have bothered to drag his body to the Thames, but left him in an alley for the rats.
Cynda took stock of her situation. She had no weapon. Her illfitting boots and cumbersome skirts precluded hoofing it if attacked. She’d just have to bluff it out. Clenching her jaw, she trudged toward Commercial Street, her heart hammering.
Ahead of her, two men lounged in a doorway, sizing her up.
They were dressed in dirty clothes and black felt hats. She could almost hear their thoughts: Tasty bit, good clothes. We could have a bit of fun and score some brass, as well.
Her only advantage was that she wouldn’t react like they expected. Squaring her shoulders, she pressed on, passing the ominous pair.
She heard the sound of boots shifting position and mumbled words. She readied herself. When a dirty hand grabbed her shoulder, she reacted instantly, driving her elbow back with tremendous force. When it impacted, she felt a rib crack, followed by a piercing bellow of pain. The man staggered away, hunched over, fighting for breath. A moment later, he was on his knees, retching. Spying his short truncheon, she retrieved it.
Yer a right witch, aren’t ya? the other rough snarled, spitting on the street.
He was thickly built, and the glare in his eyes promised payback for hurting his cohort. He marched forward, a curved knife in his hand.
Hey! a voice called. The tough turned. There was a solid thud, and the man sunk onto his knees, dazed. When her foe began to rise, Cynda delivered her own blow and sent the fellow nose down onto the pavement.
Are ya all right, miss? a man in rough garb asked. He held a stout piece of timber in his hands and peered at her with concern.
When he saw her eyes on the makeshift weapon, he tossed it away.
Just fine, thank you. She weighed the truncheon in her hand.
Useful little thing. I think I’ll keep it as a souvenir. She stuck it in her skirt pocket. The handle protruded until she covered it with her mantelet. After a quick check to ensure the pocket watch was where it should be, Cynda called another Thanks, and set off toward the main road.
Keats watched her hike away, shaking his head. She’d dropped the first thug on her own, and from the looks of him, he’d not be messing with anyone for quite a while. Amazing, he muttered.
He followed in the lady’s footsteps.
When he caught up with her, she shot him a wary look.
I’m not up for trouble, miss, he said. I’ll walk ya to where ya needs to go. Y’aren’t safe here.
Thank you for helping me.
Ya looked like ya were doin’ right fine on yer own. A shrug.
Where ya headed?
The Britannia.
He nodded. That’ll do.
When they were across the street from Crossingham’s Lodging House, Jacynda slowed her pace, and then stopped outright. She edged forward, peering into an archway with a sober expression.
What are you doing? Miss? No response. Ah, miss, we should be goin’ now.
What? she asked, distracted. He eyed the passageway which so closely held her attention. It was nothing special, just like any of the squalid courts in the area.
He looked back over his shoulder. The two thugs were on their feet now. One held a cloth to his head and pointed in their direction.
We gotta go, miss! he urged, tugging on her arm.
She nodded and hurried along the street, still preoccupied.
Keats breathed a little easier once they reached the pub. No one was following them, as least as far as he could tell.
At the entrance, she took his hand and pressed a sovereign into it––a fortune in the East End.
Buy yourself a drink or two on me.
God bless ya, miss.
He tipped his hat and wandered into the bar. She followed him in, had a look around, and then left. Keats counted to forty before easing out the front door. In the distance, he saw her heading south. Once away from this part of Whitechapel, he could safely change forms. He had a few questions to put to Miss Lassiter, and it was best if they came from Jonathon Keats.
If not for her height, he would have missed her in the crowd.
She was listening to an organ grinder. When the tiny monkey skittered up to her, dapper in his red uniform and gold braid, she knelt and placed a coin in his cup. The expression on her face reminded Keats of a little girl, so full of wonder.
The little creature chattered, doffed his cap, and rattled the cup again.
I don’t have any more, she said, and then laughed.
Here, let me help you, Keats offered, kneeling beside her and offering a couple of pennies.
The smile moved in his direction, warming him. Thank you, Jonathon. She took the coins and gave them to the monkey. The cap popped off again, and then the primate hurried to his master to deliver his largesse. He is so cute! she said, beaming. I’ve never seen one of them before.
Keats offered his arm, and they rose together. I’m glad I happened along, then.
He’d figured she’d be shaken by her earlier encounter, recounting it in horrific detail. Instead she was composed, as if nothing untoward had happened.
Remarkable. Reticent to ruin the moment, he walked for some distance before posing the question.
Why are you out on the streets alone? he asked.
Just needed to take a walk, was the prompt reply.
And visit every pub? There are parts of Whitechapel that aren’t the safest, you realize.
So it seems, she said.