Chapter 26
2057 A.D.
TEM Enterprises Testing her endurance, Cynda swung her legs over the side of the bed and took a few deep breaths. The pain was blunt, but tolerable. She felt her neck; there was a line of raised skin where the knife had cut into the flesh. Leaning over, she swiveled the Thera-Bed graphics board around and checked her status. The thick blue line was pushing in the right direction. Lots of blue meant you were healing. No blue meant you were a memory.
Nearly healed, she said. Pretty amazing.
Indeed. A lean figure floated into the room with the same quiet precision she’d expect of a robot. That’s where the resemblance ended: salt-and-pepper hair, black turtleneck and tailored slacks.
Standing ramrod-straight near the window, he ordered, Open twenty-three percent. The window covering complied, allowing a soft glow to inhabit the room.
Twenty-three percent? Who calibrates blinds that closely?
He studied her intently. I am pleased to see you are improving. His sober voice was overlaid with the soft veneer of a British accent.
And you are…? Cynda asked.
A bemused expression. It made him look less like a statue. I am T.E. Morrisey. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.
Morrisey? It couldn’t be… The guy who created the Fast Forward time-travel software?
Among other things.
My friend Ralph thinks you’re a god, you know.
A wry chuckle. So he’s said.
Studying him, she made an educated guess. You brought me home?
Yes.
And paid for all this? she said, waving to encompass the technology, making sure to use the arm on the opposite side of the chest wound.
Yes.
Why? What’s in it for you?
You, Miss Lassiter.
She blinked in astonishment. Me?
Second to Harter Defoe, you’re the best Rover TIC employed.
It would be difficult to offer you a job if you were dead.
Job? She shook her head. My roving days are over. I’m having serious lag-induced hallucinations.
Ralph sidled into the room at that point and took a position near the door, leaning against the wall.
Hey, she said.
Hey yourself.
A concerned frown from Morrisey. Your hallucinations do not resolve with rest?
No, not really. The spider was missing at present, but she knew he’d not wandered far.
Well, that is unfortunate. However, my plans are more…esoteric.
Meaning?
You would be in what I call the ‘mending’ trade. It requires less travel, more hands-on.
Cynda rubbed the bridge of her nose to quell an itch. In English, Mr. Morrisey.
She heard a sharp intake of breath from Ralph. Apparently, you weren’t supposed to challenge the genius. Morrisey stared at her, but there was no anger on his face.
You’ve been in the London Underground? he asked.
Yes. Just recently, in fact. Smelly place in ’88.
In our time period? Morrisey asked.
Yes, a couple of years back.
Ancient, isn’t it?
Yup.
And yet, though they are nearly two centuries old, the tunnels are in remarkable shape. They still serve their purpose, albeit with a new mode of transport.
She nodded. Grav-Rail beats the hell out of the old steam engines. A lot less messy.
A slight flicker of irritation. The point is they are still intact, and that is because someone takes the time to patch them on a regular basis.
Which means? she asked, spreading her hands. Her right side cramped in response. Gritting her teeth, she breathed through the discomfort rather than up the neuro-blocker.
Time is no different than the tunnels, Miss Lassiter. It requires patching to prevent collapse.
Feeling perverse, she lowered the painkiller a couple more notches. The ache rose proportionally. She ignored it, needing as clear a brain as possible for this topic. That’s a no-no, she hedged.
Morrisey’s eyebrow headed upward. And cremating the body of your lover and transporting him to the twenty-first century, contrary to the direct order of your employer, is acceptable?
Chris, she whispered. The sadness returned, stronger than she’d anticipated. She looked away to control the tears.
Morrisey’s voice softened. Indeed. If you hadn’t made the effort, Mr. Stone’s remains would not be home with his family at this moment. You brought them considerable comfort.
A single tear rippled down her cheek; she wiped it away, embarrassed. If TIC had told me he was missing, I would have gone earlier. I would have found him. Maybe he’d still be alive and…
Morrisey shook his head. Or both of you would be dead. At this point, it’s academic. His death is embedded in the time stream and can’t be altered without…consequences.
Did his family accept that?
When Morrisey didn’t answer, Ralph spoke up. It was hard.
They didn’t understand why we couldn’t make it right.
Cynda blinked away another tear. I can imagine. We can sling your boy through time, but we couldn’t keep him from dying.
Sorry. That’s the breaks.
Morrisey abruptly cleared his throat. Anyway, back to the matter at hand. You’re sharp, and you know how to circumvent the rules. Where TIC did not appreciate those traits, I find them to be of value.
Cynda countered, I was taught that time is pretty resilient, that it will spring back to its original path if given the chance.
Unless, of course, you really bugger up something major. So how can you mend it?
Some time threads are more fragile than others—more susceptible to manipulation or disarray. The time flow you just occupied is one of the most strained. Fortunately, that fragility diminishes as you reach the new century.
Why is it like that? Cynda asked, genuinely puzzled.
The physics are rather complex. For an analogy, consider time as individual threads woven into a piece of fabric. Some threads are weaker than others, due to wear or to an issue with the initial construction.
Initial construction?
If you wish me to lecture on the intricacies of Inter-Momentuary Quantum Physics––
Cynda held up a hand in surrender. No, no. Please don’t do that. I’ll just accept that ’88 was built by an inferior contractor, how’s that?
A smile bloomed, and then promptly vanished. A fair assumption. My ‘menders,’ as I call them, search out the weak intersections and patch them so they’ll stay on track.
But how do you know if something is going off the rails? she asked, captivated both by the conversation and this most unusual man.
I have developed a means to sense the ‘shift’ and ‘drift’ of events. If undisturbed, time continues on its way. If it’s altered, the movement can be abrupt—a shift—or gradual—a drift. Either way, it is headed in a direction that wasn’t the original thread.
So, the guy who knifed me in the alley—was he a shift or a drift? Cynda cracked.
Morrisey sighed, taking her question seriously. I have no idea.
We’re at a loss as to his motives.
Cynda shook her head. I’ve had tourists hide from me, try to bribe me, but never one who tried to kill me. It doesn’t make sense. She frowned. He didn’t have a time band. Could it have been someone else’s tourist?
No, it was Samuelson, Ralph replied. The interface registered his ESR.
He put the watch into my hand after he stabbed me. When I didn’t die fast enough to suit him, he tried to cut my throat.
The Non-Life-Sign Interact, Morrisey said, and Ralph nodded his agreement. It would have triggered the transfer.
Can’t have stray bodies cluttering up history, Ralph said ruefully.
However, he didn’t do that for Mr. Stone, Morrisey observed.
The memory of her lover’s bruised body provided the answer.
Maybe he wanted Chris’ interface, Cynda offered.
What’s he going to do with that? Ralph asked. Unless he knows how it works, it’s a fancy pocket watch.
I think Chris told him, Cynda said.
Not likely. Ralph replied.
He didn’t have a choice. Chris had been beaten before he died.
Morrisey stared at her. Are you saying he was tortured?
Vigorously questioned, at least, she said, softening the truth.
Her benefactor looked away, his jaw tightening.
Cynda caught Ralph’s eyes, surprised by Morrisey’s reaction.
Her friend shrugged. Something isn’t right.
Did you ever find the tourist’s photo? she asked.
Sure did, Ralph replied, after the fact. It took some doing.
TIC’s file was corrupted, so we had to access his academic record.
For some reason, it wasn’t on that database, and they had to pull it from a backup.
I want to see it.