Chapter 15
They retreated to a quiet room. Klein would do nothing but grunt until Morrisey had instituted the complete security shield.
“What’s going on?” Defoe demanded. “Why is she that way?”
The agent issued a thick puff of air. “A few years ago the Government sponsored an experiment, a new treatment for schizoids and psychopaths, the most violent ones. It was called Null Memory Restoration. In layman’s terms, NMR reboots a person’s mind, causing almost complete memory disassociation.”
“Why would anyone want to do such a thing?” Morrisey asked, mystified. “Our memories are what make us human.”
“The theory was simple: clear out the old memories, rebuild the brain to a new set of specifications, and these crazies would become productive citizens. If it worked, you wouldn’t have to warehouse them in prisons and asylums.” Klein scoffed. “It was pure bullshit of course, but that was the plan.”
“Did it work?” Morrisey asked.
“From what I can tell, the project failed. NMR treatment was abandoned about four years ago.”
“Is it reversible?”
Klein shrugged. “Some of the patients never did retrieve their memories or progressed much further than a precocious child. Those who did recover their memories got worse...more violent.”
Morrisey slumped in his chair. “My God.”
“This has to be TPB’s doing,” Klein said. “When they couldn’t kill her, they did the next best thing. She’s gotten close to something they want hidden.” His eyes moved toward Defoe. “Both of you did.”
“I’m going back to ’88,” Defoe declared.
“You can’t. You’re not well enough,” Morrisey protested.
Defoe rose, cautiously testing his endurance. His chest responded with a spike of pain, but it wasn’t as bad as the day before. It would have to do.
“Klein is right. It’s time for me to leave. TPB will come for Lassiter. It’s best I not be found.”
“You’re not well enough,” Morrisey repeated, more emphatically this time.
“I have a safe place I can hide while I regain my strength. The longer I’m here, the more danger for you. We’ve been damned lucky so far.”
Morrisey opened his mouth to object, but Defoe waved him off. “Go find me a set of Victorian clothes, will you? Whatever is happening is in ’88. I need to be there.”
What was left of Jacynda Lassiter peered up at him quizzically.
“Pretty,” she said, pointing at the flower on his lapel.
Defoe slowly tugged the bloom off his Victorian cutaway coat. “This is for you,” he said, voice quavering.
She took it. After a deep inhalation, she frowned.
He leaned closer, intrigued. “What is it called?”
“Ah…ah…” She shook her head. “I can’t remember.”
“That is a rose.”
She took another sniff and shook her head, as if something weren’t right.
“Do you remember who did this to you?” Defoe asked.
“Macassar oil,” she said.
That brought an instant look of puzzlement. “I’m not wearing any.”
“That’s her reply whenever we ask that question,” Morrisey explained. “I have no idea what it means.”
She handed back the bud. “Not right.”
Defoe smiled wanly. “That’s correct,” he said indicating the flower. “It should have a pleasant scent, but this one doesn’t.”
She winced and bit her lip.
Morrisey bent over her. “Is your head hurting again?” A slight nod. He adjusted a setting on the Thera-Bed. “Just sleep. It’ll feel better when you awake.”
She murmured to herself as her eyes closed.
Defoe looked up at his closest friend. “They’ve declared war, Theo. She’s one of ours. So was Chris. This has to stop.”
Morrisey nodded with grim determination. “And so it shall.”
Klein was waiting for them when they exited the room.
As Defoe reattached the rose to his lapel, he observed, “She’s not entirely gone. For God’s sake, don’t let TPB near her. They’ll destroy what’s left.”
“If she’s judged to be incompetent, they’ll appoint a guardian who can send her anywhere they want,” Klein replied. “To an asylum. Maybe to prison, if they get a sympathetic judge.”
“I won’t let that happen!” Morrisey flared.
“A guardian. What an excellent idea, Senior Agent Klein,” Defoe replied, winking at his friend. “I’m sure you’d be willing to help Morrisey make that a reality. Consider it a trade for my assistance.”
Klein frowned, unaware of what had just transpired. “What do you have in mind?”
Morrisey nodded, suddenly catching his friend’s drift. “A little sleight of hand,” he said. “I need to communicate with someone Off-Grid.”
“Who?”
“Miss Lassiter’s father. I’ll ask him to appoint me guardian until such time as she becomes fully functional.”
“That could be a lifetime job,” Klein said.
Morrisey’s expression dimmed. “I’ll accept that.”
The agent flicked his gaze toward the closed door. “I’ll get the clearances. That lady had stones. Now…”
“Nothing,” Morrisey said. “That’s the official line, no matter if she gets better or not.”
Their eyes met. Klein’s mouth twitched upward into a cunning smile. “That will be the official line.” As the agent strode toward the main entrance, Morrisey’s assistant Fulham fell in step with him.
Morrisey’s tone shifted the moment the Guv agent was out of earshot. “You sure you want to leave right now?” he asked his friend.
“No choice.”
On Morrisey’s orders, there was no chron operator present in the chronsole room. A moment before Defoe entered the time pod, they embraced, Morrisey taking great care not to cause any discomfort.
“Be careful, Harter,” he said. “Your interface isn’t traceable. Keep in contact.”
As Defoe knelt in discomfort, awaiting the transfer, Morrisey’s slender fingers tapped across the keyboard. Their eyes met. “Find the man who did that to Miss Lassiter and make him pay.”
Defoe smiled. His friend might be a software wizard, but he had the heart of a samurai. “You got it, Theo.”
Morrisey triggered the time pod door. A moment later, Harter Defoe, the greatest of all Time Rovers, vanished into the past.
As if on cue, Fulham appeared at the chronsole room door.
“Representatives of the Time Protocol Board have arrived. They know of Miss Lassiter’s return. They’ve brought two security guards with them to arrest her.”
He’d expected this: the interface that sent Jacynda home was traceable.
“I wonder what took them so long.”
Like the last time they’d visited the compound, the Time Protocol Board’s minions were still using the aliases Smith and Jones. That continuing discourtesy had riled Fulham, especially since he’d been unable to ascertain their real names. Then there’d been a tussle about the security guards they’d brought along.
“No weapons inside. That’s the rule,” Fulham repeated.
“The guards won’t be unarmed,” Smith replied.
“Then they stay here, in reception.”
“We have an order from—”
“Take it or leave it, gentlemen,” Fulham barked.
Watching the verbal fireworks via a Vid monitor in his office, Morrisey cracked a smile. Mr. Fulham, like most clerks of the legal variety, possessed a nearly inexhaustible amount of patience. When it was gone, things got intense.
Smith finally acquiesced. It was either that or barge into the compound with armed guards. That faux pas would end up on the Vid-Net News—Fulham would see to that.
By the time they convened in the conference room, everyone was on edge. Smith and Jones parked themselves in the chairs at the end of the conference table, the two guards standing behind them, beefy arms crossed. A nano-drive skidded across the length of the table in Morrisey’s direction. He trapped it under his palm without looking down.
“That’s an Open Force Warrant for Miss Lassiter’s arrest,” Smith said. “We’re here to execute it.”
“I am aware of the conditions of an Open Force Warrant, Mr. Smith,” Morrisey replied, keeping his voice level. “Miss Lassiter is in no condition to travel.”
“On what basis do you make that claim?”
“She has sustained severe psychological trauma with resultant amnesia,” he said, ensuring the diagnosis sounded as clinically cold as possible. The detachment was for their benefit. Fury still churned in his gut.
“If that is the case, our doctors will treat her,” Jones replied.
“She is my employee, and will remain in my care.” He couldn’t do much for Jacynda’s damaged mind, but at least he could keep these jackals from removing her from the compound. Once she entered the prison system, he might never get her free.
“She has a cell waiting for her, Mr. Morrisey. She is a threat to—”
“Miss Lassiter is no longer a threat to anyone, except herself. She has the mind of a child, gentlemen.”
He retaliated with his own nano-drive, moving at lightning speed across the desktop. Jones tried to catch it, but missed. It tumbled into his lap.
“That’s her medical report. Ask Chairman Davies how a discredited twenty-first century technology can be used as a weapon in the nineteenth. I’ll be awaiting his answer.”
He was out the door despite their vigorous protests. He needed time to get things squared away, and challenging TPB head on was the best way to slow the beast.
His seething resentment banked when he entered her room. Jacynda was asleep, curled up like a lost waif, with no notion that the world was full of people who wanted to harm her.
Ralph Hamilton, her best friend, sat near the bed.
Morrisey cleared his throat. “How is she?”
Hamilton turned the Thera-Bed’s monitor in his direction. Her vital signs were good, her EEG still registering as aberrant. The physician had added another parameter: mental age. She was currently at just over five years old.
“So what the hell happened to her?” Hamilton asked, voice lowered to keep from waking his friend.
“What I am about to tell you must go no further, do you understand?”
There was a brusque nod. Morrisey explained as best he could, mindful of the years of friendship that stood between Hamilton and woman in the bed. As he spoke, the expression on the chron operator’s face went from shock to righteous anger.
Hamilton leapt to his feet. “Dammit, this is your fault,” he hissed, pointing an accusing finger. “You shouldn’t have let her go back the last time. You knew they were trying to kill her.”
“It was her decision.”
“The hell it was. You could have ordered her to stand down, but you didn’t. It’s all your fault.” Hamilton stormed out of the room.
You may well be right.
The chair still radiated warmth from the man’s lengthy vigil. Now it was his turn.
~??~??~??~
Sunday, 28 October, 1888
New York City
Harter Defoe took another deep whiff. Every place has its own particular scent, and this one didn’t match with his desired destination. He’d asked Theo to send him a few blocks away from Adelaide Winston’s house where he intended to throw himself on her mercy while he healed. And yet he smelled fish. His ears picked up the sound of something motorized, grinding away on a heavy load. That didn’t track. Adelaide’s posh neighborhood was noticeably absent of winches. He glanced down at the interface. It was blank. That was odd. He gave it a shake. Nothing changed.
The last thing he needed was equipment malfunction. He’d shaded the truth with his old friend: it was still too soon for him to be traveling like this. The wound hurt more than he’d admitted and his strength had yet to fully return.
Grumbling under his breath, he picked up the suitcase, adjusted it to reduce the throb in his chest, and set off down the alley. When he reached the next street, he knew he was out of position. A short walk down the pier was a massive steamship, passengers streaming up the gangplank.
He made for the closest newspaper boy. As he dug in his pocket for a coin, the masthead caught his attention. The New York Times. October 28 1888. Wrong place, wrong date.
I don’t need this right now.
“Sir?” an eager lad called out. He was dressed in a messenger’s uniform. “You Mr. Defoe?”
The hairs on the back of his neck rose. No one of this century called him that. Warily, he replied, “Yes?”
“Delivery for you, sir.”
Defoe took the proffered envelope with a sense of foreboding. Digging out a coin, he realized it wouldn’t do. “I’m sorry, all I have is British money.”
“That’s all right, sir. I’ve been paid.”
“By whom?” By the time Defoe posed the question, the messenger had already scurried off into the crowd along the pier.
The envelope contained a First Class ticket to London dated that day. It was for the steamship further down the pier, which departed in two hours.
Annoyed beyond reason, he returned to the alley. This had to be Morrisey’s doing— a means to ensure Defoe had time to recover from his wound.
You think I play God.
As soon as he was alone, he opened the interface and began the winding procedure. A moment later, he was gone. Then he was back. To the same location. He repeated the maneuver. And returned to the exact same spot.
“Morrisey, I swear I’ll—” Just then, his interface lit up and glowing letters marched across the dial.
The time has come.
This wasn’t Morrisey’s meddling, and for once he wished it was.
Knowing it was useless to try to transfer again, Defoe put away his interface, picked up his lone piece of luggage and headed for the ship. He was out of commission for a week, subject to First Class pampering that would rival Adelaide’s.
I hope you idiots know what you’re doing.