Damn. That was her final card in the game.
“Miss Lassiter?” Satyr asked. “A test, if you will permit me.”
Another one? She could only nod, unsure where he was headed.
“One of my assassins is in this room, and he is currently invisible. Point him out to me.”
“This is nonsense!” the Ascendant protested. “No one can see a Virtual when they are hiding their form.”
Cynda swiveled, looking for the characteristic bloom. There it was, standing near one of the wooden posts that supported the massive roof.
She pointed. “There.”
“Archer. Reveal yourself.”
The one named Archer materialized into view as gasps and frenzied whispering broke out amongst the Twenty.
“This has no bearing,” the Ascendant insisted. “She is not one of us.”
“If she can truly see us, she is as much Transitive as we are. A Perceiver ranks even higher than a Virtual, because they are so rare,” Satyr countered smoothly.
Cynda could have kissed him for that, though that would have put her within knife range. There was no guarantee how long their truce might last.
“She is deceiving all of you. She is the Devil’s whore, can you not see it?”
He’d gone too far. “Now wait a minute—” Cynda began.
The brave man took another step forward. “By tradition there must be a woman on the Twenty. I nominate this person,” he called out, pointing toward her. “Do I hear a second?”
“You can’t do that,” the Ascendant growled. “She’s not—”
“Second!” another voice called, suddenly full of confidence.
“Third!”
“We are now seventeen strong,” the first man announced. “How do we vote on the future of the Ascendant? Yea for life, or nay for death.”
There was a long pause. Cynda’s heart thudded. If they backed down now, she was dead. They all were, if they took the time to think about it.
From near the front of the pack, a tremulous voice called out, “Nay!”
“Who was that? Was that Cartwright?” the Ascendant bellowed.
“Nay!” another shouted, while staring at the one named Cartwright like he’d just witnessed something extraordinary.
“Hastings? What is this treachery?” their leader demanded.
“I’m no traitor!” Hastings shouted back. “I did your bidding, and you repaid me by disbanding The Conclave. How dare you treat us so shabbily?”
“Your opinion does not matter. None of you. I will not stand for this.”
Cynda bit her lip to stay silent. The Ascendant was digging his own grave.
Another voice. “Nay!”
Emboldened, thirteen more nays erupted like gunshots, echoing off the warehouse ceiling in rapid succession. Then they all looked toward her.
Their superior waved Tobin forward and the assassin took a step closer in her direction. There was no other woman present. If he cut her down, the Twenty was out of options.
She hazarded a quick look at Satyr. The Lead Assassin didn’t twitch a muscle. This was her battle.
“Will the real Archangel Michael put things right?” she asked.
Satyr’s eyes widened at the use of his first name. “Yes,” he replied.
“Then I shall do the same for him and his kind.”
He nodded in respect, a pact made.
“Nay!” she shouted.
Cynda heard the shriek the moment she exited the double doors. Tobin or the Ascendant? If the young assassin had been stupid enough to get between Satyr and his boss, that was his decision.
“The King is Dead! Long Live the King!” she called out.
Hopefully the new Ascendant would be less gullible.
~??~??~??~
What’s left of the genius…
Cynda lit a single gas lamp in the hotel room, but she knew that all the light in England would not push back the darkness. Chris’ death had wounded her in ways she’d not thought possible. It had only been a harbinger of Theo’s loss. Emptiness enfolded her like a tomb, choking the air out of her lungs, pressing down on her like a mountain range.
Cynda laid his interface in her palm. This was guilt that would never fade—the kind that had haunted Theo about his beloved Mei. It would become part of Cynda now, like her skin. Any reminder of him would call up that failure. His dark eyes, the silken whoosh of the sword moving though the air, the tang of the spicy tea, the soft brush of his voice. She remembered the anticipation she’d felt each morning when he emerged from his rooms. The genuine friendship they’d forged.
She could see her path leading to this moment so clearly now. Chris had gently pried open her heart so she knew love when she saw it. Alastair and Jonathon had nurtured that hope, each in their own way. It had been Theo who’d showed her love could truly be hers, if she were willing to take the risk. She hadn’t, at least not in time.
Unconsciously, she tightened her grip on the pocket watch. There was a noticeable click. Puzzled, she found it had opened, but not to reveal the dial. She pried open the new compartment. Inside was photograph of her, clad in period garb. He’d apparently taken it from one of the monitors in the chronsole room. Theo had been carrying her with him all the time, and she’d never known.
Cynda dug for her own interface and hunted for that tiny catch. It was there, hidden unless you were looking for it. The compartment sprung open. Instead of her face, it was Theo’s. He was clad in a suit, his handsome features reminding her of the last time she’d seen him. She lingered over the image. His athletic build, strong jaw, bright eyes and dark hair. Then she saw the inscription.
To my beloved Jacynda
There is no other in my heart.
Yours through time,
Theo
Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t fight the chest-wrenching sobs or the tears, but let them flow, wetting her hands, her chest, the interface.
She’d put history back on track, and it had destroyed them in the process.
“Why?” she cried. “I did what I was supposed to do. Why him?”
Silence. Time was known for that. It picked at your bones like a scavenger, yet demanded you worship it like an omnipotent god.
Her interface vibrated, and she jumped. It was a message from Hopkins, which meant GuvNet was finally online.
Get to the corner of Commercial and Whitechapel Street fastest way possible.
She wanted to ask if they’d found Theo, but it would take too long to open up a link and type out the question. Instead, she wiped the tears out of her eyes, knelt, and made the hop.
Hopkins was pacing again, back and forth like a windup toy. “What took you so long?”
She wasn’t going there. “You found him?”
He swiped a hand across his mouth in frustration. “Not yet. Copeland sent a ransom demand to TEM Enterprises—we give him Defoe or…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence. “Everyone’s going ballistic back home. That’s why I need you.”
“For what?”
“I’ve set the others out in a grid pattern around the borders of the East End. I need you to help. Maybe we can triangulate Morrisey’s position using the interfaces.”
“Theo doesn’t have an active ESR Chip,” she said, crestfallen.
“I know. They’re too easy to find and remove. We’ve learned that the hard way.” The Rover’s interface buzzed. He flipped open the dial. “All right!” he crowed. “Now we get to work.”
None of this made sense. “What’s going on?”
“Morrisey’s chip is passive. Klein wouldn’t let him come here without one. It won’t register unless it’s activated by a specific code. Guv can do that once we’re in position. As soon as the chip’s active, we just need to zero in on it to locate your boss.”
Her fragile hope collapsed. “Our interfaces are too short range for this, Hopkins. We only get about twenty feet in any direction.”
“Guv will use our combined interfaces to form a low power transmission grid and they’ll give us a boost from home. It’ll take longer this way, bouncing the signals back and forth, but it’ll work,” he reassured. “Don’t worry, Lassiter, we’ll find him.”
Hope struggled to its feet again, brushing off its bruised knees.
“Tell me what you want me to do.”