Chapter 28
Chief Inspector Fisher halted at the kerb and rounded on Keats, seething. I can hardly credit your behavior this last week. I have always granted you considerable leeway in your work, infinitely more than any other sergeant at the Yard, and yet you abuse my trust with your half-truths. What has gotten into you? Before Keats could speak, Fisher continued, Why didn’t you tell me you were one of them? Do you trust me so little?
Keats dropped his gaze. It wasn’t a matter of trust, sir.
Then what was it?
The knowledge of our existence puts you in particular danger.
In what way? Fisher shot back.
I was concerned you might be harmed, perhaps suffer some setback in your career.
Fretting about my career is not your job, Sergeant.
Your career is not the only thing in danger, sir. In the past, they have orchestrated the downfall of those they deem a threat, either by character assassination or through outright physical violence. Some unfortunates found themselves committed to an asylum as a means to secure their silence. Those of higher rank are often harder to dissuade, and so may fall prey to a mishap.
Mishap?
A slip in front of a coach, a tumble off a train, something of that nature. Given our leaders’ recent behavior toward Alastair, I didn’t dare take the risk. That is why I was so reticent to tell you the truth.
Fisher stepped onto the kerb and peered down the street. You could easily have led me into early retirement to deal with the problem. Why didn’t you?
Because you are one of the finest police officers I have ever met, sir. If you were to retire, London would be the worse for it.
And your career, as well.
Keats sighed. I prayed I might walk a line between you and them.
No man can serve two masters, Sergeant. You must choose.
I know that now, sir.
There was a small silence. Fisher’s voice, considerably softened, asked, How did you acquire your…ability?
My mother.
A coach clattered by, the horses’ breath a billow of steam in the cold air.
A brusque nod. Is there a cab stand near here? Fisher asked.
Keats started at the abrupt change of subject. There’s one at Russell Square. Though it is early, you also might secure a hansom in front of the museum.
Excellent. I wish to go home and freshen up before I begin the day.
Sir? Keats asked, on tenterhooks. Do I still have a job?
Fisher turned toward him. Is there a peer of the realm in your midst?
Yes.
Does he have a lick of intelligence?
He does indeed, sir.
I would like to meet with him.
Yes, sir.
Fisher adjusted his hat. There is much more at stake than my sudden distrust of your motives, Sergeant. Keats’ hope melted. His superior placed a hand on his shoulder. We will work through this.
You’re too good of a man to lose. In the future, by God, you tell me everything. Do you understand?
Yes, sir.
Then good morning, Detective-Sergeant. Fisher swung around him and marched away at a brisk clip, coat tails flapping.
As Keats watched the chief inspector turn the corner and head toward Russell Square, a shudder coursed through him.
A man cannot serve two masters, he whispered. As fate would have it, that was precisely what he was required to do.
2057 A.D.
South Horizons Complex The reassuring stillness of Ralph’s apartment wrapped around her, drawing her in. Other than the occasional whir of his DomoBot gliding through to check on her, Cynda was left to her own thoughts. Nestled in the retro purple beanbag chair, cradling Ferret Fred to her chest, she’d listened to Chris’ Vid messages in chronological order, laughing at his jokes and savoring what made him so unique. Then she wept until there were no more tears.
By now, the report she’d filed would be bouncing around Morrisey’s organization. Parts of the journey she didn’t bother to mention—Alastair and Jonathon’s supposedly being shapeshifters, for example. Other than Alastair’s little sleepwalking trick, she’d never seen either of them change. If their kind no longer existed in 2057, she’d sound crazy. If they did, well, it was best not to stir things up.
Should I work for Mr. Genius? she mused. She couldn’t crash at Ralph’s apartment forever. On the other hand, Morrisey’s job offer smelt like a Faustian bargain. Whatcha think, Fred? she murmured, tightening her grip on the stuffed critter.
The front door beeped, followed by the glide of the DomoBot across the faux-wood floor. Good afternoon, Master Ralph, it announced in an accent of a proper British butler. Leave it to her friend to program himself a manservant on wheels.
Good afternoon, Sigmund. Is our guest up?
Yes, sir. She is currently in the central room communing with a transference item.
Transference item? Cynda glanced down. Must mean you, Fred.
Thank you, Sigmund. That will be all. The Bot glided away to do whatever Bots did when they weren’t under your nose. They probably talked behind their masters’ backs, just like their nineteenth-century counterparts.
Ralph appeared in the doorway, studying her for a moment.
Hey.
Hey.
Dropping his pack, he crowded into the double beanbag with her. It was the kind of closeness she’d never experienced with her own brother.
How goes it? he asked. He sounded upbeat, but his eyes reflected concern.
Just fabulous. How about you? she replied, cuddling Fred closer. If he’d been alive, his eyes would be bulging.
I’ve been better, but then again, I’m not the one who’s committing ferret abuse.
She loosened her grip and set her chin on top of Fred’s head.
An emphatic sigh. Talk to me, Cyn.
How much do you trust Morrisey?
Ralph’s glasses descended for a cleaning as he thought through the question. On a scale of one to ten, about an eight.
She blinked. That high?
A nod as the glasses returned to his nose. He brought home four TIC Rovers on his own dime, and made sure you got top-ofthe-line medical care. He didn’t have to do any of that.
Yeah, I know. I just don’t understand why he’s being so…nice.
What’s in it for him?
Good Karma? Ralph offered.
She shook her head in disbelief.
I don’t know, Cyn. He’s a complicated guy. He plucked Fred out of her hands and petted him, then playfully set the ferret on top of her head. It teetered for a moment and fell to the floor, flopping onto its side.
She pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. I want to go back to ’88 and get the tourist.
Ralph eyed her. You sure that’s wise? There’s nothing to say the bad dude in the alley won’t come after you again.
I have to do this. Until Samuelson’s home, Chris’ death will have been in vain.
Chris would disagree. He knew the dangers involved. Rovers risk their butts so some smug PhD can go whenever the hell they want and then play the big shot back home. It’s the job.
Cynda opened her mouth to protest and then abandoned the effort. I want Chris to rest in peace.
Ralph shook his head. You’re still fudging it. You want to bring Samuelson back so you can rest in peace.
He had her on that one. She plucked Fred from the floor, snuggling him close. Ralph snaked an arm around her and pulled her into an embrace as tight as the one she had on the ferret.
You never told me who helped you deliver Chris’ ashes to his family.
It was Morrisey.
She swiveled in his arms and stared at him. Why him?
Ralph pulled her close again. Because Chris was his nephew.
Oh, whoa, she murmured. He told me he had a rich uncle, but he’d never let on who it was.
I only found out when we delivered the urn.
Tell Morrisey I’m on his payroll, she said.
A muffled chuckle near her ear. You already are. He said you’d be going back to ’88, that it would be your way of honoring Chris.
She shivered involuntarily. Who is this guy?
Ralph shrugged. He’s like a bead of mercury. You can’t put your finger on him.
Poisonous and hard to pin down. Not a reassuring combination.