Chapter 14
2057 A.D.
TEM Enterprises
Cynda landed hard, the wind knocked out of her. Her chin was resting on a chilly surface. It wasn’t wood like the floor in the nice man’s house. She inched a hand out. Flat…bump…flat…bump. Like mountains and valleys made out of solid metal. She kept moving her fingers farther away, touching the elevations and the depressions, trying to make sense of them. Then she encountered an obstruction. White, something hard. She tapped the end of it.
“Cyn?” a voice called.
The sound rattled around inside her head. She kept tapping the tip of the…shoe. A hand appeared and touched hers. She yanked hers back.
“Miss Lassiter?” another voice sounded, this one filled with authority.
She raised her chin to find two men staring at her. One had a long, gray-streaked ponytail that draped across a shoulder. His round glasses reflected the bright lights in the strangely shaped room. The other was dressed in black, with a dash of silver at his temples.
She focused on the one with the white shoes. He looked familiar. A name came to her tongue, but then it darted away.
“Is this a crazy place?” she asked through cracked lips.
“What?”
The other man cut in. “This is TEM Enterprises, Miss Lassiter. We were told you were ill. What is wrong with you?”
She shook her head, which made things worse. Shapes floated in front of her eyes like half-formed ghosts. Maybe they were ghosts. Where was the man who’d taken care of her in the old place? He would help her.
“Not right,” she said, trying to rise to her knees. Hands caught her a moment before she sank into the welcoming oblivion.
~??~??~??~
Senior Agent Klein didn’t fit the surroundings, but then few people did. Theo Morrisey’s private solarium was a reflection of its owner: unique. Stocked with rare tropical plants and butterflies, skittering geckos and a small colony of hummingbirds, it was not the ideal place for a senior Government spook to interrogate someone.
Which is exactly why Harter Defoe had chosen it.
“Talk to me,” Klein ordered, unconsciously tracking a hummer as it zipped mere microns over his head. “Tell me what’s going on so I don’t feel tempted to throw your ass in jail.”
Defoe carefully spread his hands, mindful of his healing chest wound. “On what charges?”
“Removing your ESR Chip, for one. That’s a Class 3 Felony. Traveling with a cloaked interface, a Level…hell, you know the regs better than I. You created them.”
“Some of them,” Defoe corrected. Time Rover One, as they called him, had not been responsible for the Essential Subject Record Chip rules. He detested the notion that someone knew where he was at any given moment because of a piece of hardware imbedded under his skin. “So what do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with your chest wound. Who gave it to you?”
“Someone who works for the Time Protocol Board.”
Klein perked up. “How do you know that?”
“Lassiter told me. When I got the drop on him, he was about to kneecap her.” He grimaced. “Unfortunately, he scored the final shot.”
Defoe altered his position in the chair to ease a cramp in his back. It didn’t help. He’d been in the Thera-Bed too long. He wished the spook would wrap up the questions and leave.
“TPB hasn’t said a word about the shooting,” Klein remarked skeptically.
“They might not know. Lassiter bashed the guy on the head and sent him home before he knew he’d hit me.”
Klein frowned. “Why would a TPB goon risk shooting you just to get Lassiter?”
“Perhaps he did not recognize me,” Defoe offered.
The senior agent’s frown deepened. “Or he thought he was looking at someone else.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Defoe replied. He wasn’t about to confirm that he was a shape-shifter to a senior agent of the Government.
“Yeah, you do, but we’ll leave it at that for the moment.”
Klein leaned forward, unaware that a yellow-throated day gecko was eyeing him like he was a savory snack. “Here’s the situation: TPB is hiding something. Something big. They circled the wagons when Davies moved up to the chairmanship position. We need to find out what they’re up to.”
Defoe let out a slow breath, trying to short-circuit his anger. “You got Morrisey’s nephew killed over some damned interagency rivalry?”
“Nothing that petty. Stone was the third one we’ve lost.”
“I haven’t heard a thing about this.”
“You haven’t been around to hear it,” Klein shot back.
Defoe huffed in frustration. “The lag was getting to me. I needed some time off.”
“We figured as much. When one of our people said they’d caught a reading of your ESR Chip in 1888, we decided it was time to let you know what was going on.”
Should have removed that damned thing years ago.
Klein rocked back in his chair, causing the gecko to sprint away. “To some extent this is a private battle between Guv and TPB, but there are bigger implications.”
“That isn’t comforting,” Defoe grumbled. The Time Protocol Board was stocked with ambitious politicians. The Guv folks were the spooks, answerable only to themselves and the current administration. It was a toss-up as to which was worse.
As if reading his mind, Klein said, “I know you don’t like us. No one likes us. But right now we’re the lesser of two evils.”
“Not a very compelling sales pitch.”
The agent shrugged. “It’s the way things are. What we know for sure is that people are in the time stream who aren’t on record as being there. TPB is looking the other way. We want to know why.”
“Like Chris Stone’s killer?”
“Dalton Mimes is a good example,” Klein acknowledged. “He hitches a ride along with his psychiatrist brother to 1888, but no record is made of his journey. TPB doesn’t blow a cork about that when it comes to light. Why?”
“Morrisey said it was some deal Time Immersion Corp. cooked up to save themselves from bankruptcy. Once they went under, TPB didn’t care.”
“TIC wasn’t the only one hiding the transfers,” Klein informed him. “Time In Motion is doing the same thing.”
“They’ve always been a front for the Board’s behind-the-scenes deals,” Defoe replied.
“Too easy of an explanation.” Klein glared at the dragonfly perched on his arm. He shook it off. “Why the hell are we in here? There are things flying all over the place.”
“They don’t bother me,” Defoe fibbed.
Klein’s eyes narrowed. “I spent some time with Mimes. Nutty bastard. He says he was in ’88 to frame some Victorian for the Ripper murders and make a freakin’ fortune. He’s very pissed that someone hasn’t sprung him from the asylum. It’s as if he thought that was a forgone conclusion.”
“So he got stiffed. That’s life,” Defoe replied, wondering where this was headed.
“Mimes’ attempt to screw with history isn’t the big story here. What’s troubling me is that he was willing to leave his brother behind in an asylum.” Before Defoe could say a word, Klein cut him off. “I know he was bagging his sister-in-law. Still, it doesn’t wash for me. Not everything boils down to sex and jealousy.”
“Precious little in my experience.”
Klein looked him straight in the eye. “What bothers me is that quid pro quo Mimes was expecting. When he realized I wasn’t there to bail him out, he blew his cork. He claims he wasn’t the only person involved in the death of Morrisey’s nephew.”
Defoe’s chest tightened. “He could be lying.”
A shake of the head. “Chris Stone’s watch registered an ESR Chip right before he died. It took some doing, but we finally tracked the reading back to someone under contract with TPB. Ex-military prick named Copeland.”
Defoe froze. “Tall, arrogant, dark-haired?”
Klein nodded.
Oh yeah, he remembered the bastard. Too busy trying to shoot Lassiter, Copeland hadn’t seen him coming. There were advantages to being invisible. Unfortunately, TPB’s hired gun won the round anyway. But not the next.
“He’s the one who shot me,” Defoe said.
Klein nodded. “I suspect he’s good for the other deaths.”
“So why isn’t he in jail?”
“TPB denies it all, refuses to recall him.”
“Then turn one of your people loose on him.”
“I’ve lost enough already,” Klein answered bluntly.
“But you’re willing to put Lassiter and me on the firing line?”
“I judge it’s worth the risk.” Klein dropped the attitude. “We know you’ve had some contact with the Futures.”
How the hell do you know that? Morrisey wouldn’t have told them. Buying time, Defoe hedged his reply. “Futures?”
“Don’t go coy with me. We know they’ve been snooping both in our time and in ’88. I don’t trust them. We have no idea of their agenda.”
“Their agenda is simple: keep us from fornicating their future.”
“Did they give you any details?”
“Not really.” In truth, they’d said enough to scare the hell out of him. In five short years, laws would be passed to interdict Transitive behavior. The shifters would begin to fight back three years after that. It all went south from there.
Klein didn’t need to know all that.
A hummingbird careened past them, pursued by another at top speed. Defoe let the seconds spin out, weighing his options against his conscience. He’d been at Chris’ high school graduation and his graduation from the Time Immersion Academy. The kid had been first in his class. He shouldn’t be dead. He should be settling down, marrying, having kids so Morrisey would have someone to spoil.
His eyes locked onto Klein’s. “Okay, you got me. How do we reel Copeland in?”
To his credit, Klein passed on looking smug. “Go back to ’88 and keep digging. The key is hidden there somewhere.”
They heard a series of beeps as the outer door opened, followed by barely audible footsteps. The Guv agent went on the alert.
“It’s Morrisey,” Defoe said. No one else moved that quietly. Sure enough, his friend appeared at the entrance to the solarium, face shrouded in concern.
Defoe straightened up, his chest complaining at the sudden movement. “Do we have barbarians at the gates?”
“Not yet, but I suspect TPB will be here soon enough,” Morrisey replied, giving Klein a quick look. “Miss Lassiter has just returned from ’88. Her mind didn’t make the trip.”
~??~??~??~
Cynda blinked open her eyes. It took awhile for her to realize she was in a new place. She found a man peering down at her. It wasn’t the one with the odd-sounding instruments who kept asking her about her brain. The other man, the solemn one who wore all black, stood nearby, watching her intently. A third hovered near the door. She didn’t like the looks of him.
“Do you remember me?” the first one asked.
She shook her head carefully, so as not to trigger another headache. The bed she was lying on seemed to help that, which didn’t make any sense. The bed in the other place hadn’t. The solemn man had said that the blue line on the bed needed to be longer before she could get up. She checked it again. It hadn’t changed. Still, she liked the color blue.
“Do you remember falling into the river?” the man asked.
A stray image appeared. It was of rotting fish. She shook her head.
“Do you remember me being shot?” Another shake of the head. “What do you remember?”
“Mice. In the crazy place.”
“The what?”
“I think she means an asylum,” the solemn man explained. “We found a scrap of paper in her pocket. It had her first name written on it. Miss Lassiter said a woman gave it to her. I believe it’s the only reason she knows her first name. She certainly does not remember Mr. Hamilton, and they’ve been friends for over a quarter of a century.”
“What could have caused this?” the first man asked, his face pale now.
“The physician isn’t sure, but he did find a circular pattern on her left temple that looks like a scorch mark,” the solemn man continued. “He has no idea what could have caused it.”
“Null Mem,” the man near the door murmured.
“What?” the first one demanded.
No reply.
“Spill it, Klein.”
“Not here.”