Before he could answer, Felix’s phone buzzed with a message. He drew a flat silver communicator from his pocket and read the screen. “Hazmat is here. So, next we clone my father’s Timekey to go back to wherever he was hiding out, and maybe find some notes and clean up whatever mess he left behind. We don’t want some local finding one of my daddy’s designs and building super-lasers a century ahead of schedule. You stay here and review the video evidence on the original Timekey’s video log.”
Chevie watched her partner/boss as he strode toward the stairway, back in action mode less than an hour after stumbling on the body of his estranged father.
Cold, she thought.
Riley lay on a low bunk in the holding cell. He held his hands before his face and clenched them into fists to stop them trembling.
I am in another world was his first thought. His second was Garrick. He’ll be coming for me, you can bet your last shilling on that.
Riley tried to think about something else.
He’d never had a friend, as far as he could remember, and he was used to bolstering his own spirits. But sometimes, in his dreams, he saw the tall boy with red hair and a wide smile, and he had developed a habit of talking to that boy in his head as a way of calming himself.
I’m alive, ain’t I, Ginger? And maybe this prison is far enough away. Far enough to flummox Garrick himself.
But Riley didn’t believe that, no matter how many times he repeated it.
Riley tried to stop thinking about Garrick, but it was hard to cheer yourself up when Garrick’s mug was the main image in your brain.
So think of something else, then.
What about the yellow blood busting from that old geezer’s ticker? And didn’t he have monkey parts? And what about that shameless lass in the black undergarments? This was indeed a confusing new world, and a strange-looking prison cell.
But every cell has a door and every door has a lock.
Garrick’s words.
Undeniably those words had a wisdom to them. Riley forced himself to stand and walk the half dozen paces to the door. If this was indeed a prison, then it could be escaped from, just as Edmond Dantès had escaped from the dreaded Château d’If in one of Riley’s favorite novels, The Count of Monte Cristo.
In recent years, books had become Riley’s passion and had helped him through the long, lonely hours in the Holborn theater that he and Garrick used as their digs. It was Garrick’s custom to disappear for days on end, and on his return he expected a clean house and a hot dinner. And while the assassin sat in the kitchen, blowing on his beef stew, his knees knocking on the underside of the table, he would twirl a spoon regally, which was Riley’s signal to begin the evening’s entertainment. Riley would then regale his master with an approximate summary of whichever novel he had been tasked with reading.
Lively now, son, Garrick often called. Make me believe that I’m in between the pages my own self.
And Riley would think, I am not your son, and, I wish I was in between these pages.
When Garrick had initiated this storytelling practice, Riley had hated it and grew to resent the books themselves; but The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes changed all of that. The book was simply too fascinating to be despised. Riley could no more hate Arthur Conan Doyle than he could hate the parents he could not remember, though Garrick reminded him often that they had left him hanging in a flour bag on the railings of Bethnal Green workhouse, where the magician had found him and rescued him from slum cannibals.
I could certainly do with some advice from Mr. Holmes at this present moment, thought Riley, rapping on the door with a knuckle. A genius detective is exactly what the doctor ordered—that or a housebreaker.
The cell door itself was standard prison issue, heavy steel with a window of sufficient dimensions for a medium-sized dog to squeeze through were it not glazed.
Or an escapologist.
Riley knew he could wriggle through that gap if there was a way to get the glass out.
Garrick has forced me through tighter holes.
But the glass extended into the door itself on all sides and was well milled, with no warps or bubbles.
These people know their glass, Riley had to admit. The lock, then?
The lock was of a design that baffled Riley. There was no space for even the narrowest pick to penetrate. Riley tested the keyhole with his fingertip and felt a nail crack for his trouble. The door had no visible hinges, and there wasn’t enough room for so much as a draft to squeeze through underneath.
This would be a challenge, even for Albert Garrick.
Then again, Garrick would be coming in, not going out. And getting in was always easier, especially if you could knock off the person with the key and take it from them.
Riley shivered. He swore that he could sense Garrick drawing closer, and his approach seemed to chill the air.
The door clacked and swung slowly inward, and Riley held his breath, so convinced was he that Garrick had come to tuck him in for a Highgate nap. But it was not the magician; instead the half-clothed lass who had locked him in stood framed in the doorway.
“Step back from the door, kid,” said the girl. “Lie on the bed with your hands behind your head.”
Her tone was amiable enough, but there was a large pistol in her delicate fingers, and in Riley’s opinion, this particular pistol seemed capable of shooting the bullet and perhaps digging the grave as well. This was not a pistol one argued with, so Riley did as he was told and looked sharp about it.
The girl seemed satisfied and stepped inside the room, leaving a tantalizing wedge of freedom on display behind her. Riley briefly considered bolting for the outside world, but then light glinted on the gun’s barrel, and the boy decided he could wait for the next opportunity.
“Miss,” said Riley. “Have I come to rest in a traveling Wild West Show? You appear to be a savage Injun.”
Chevie glared down at the boy along the sights of her weapon. “We don’t use the term savage Injun anymore. Some people take issue with being described as savages. Go figure.”
“I saw Buffalo Bill’s Extravaganza a while back. You have the look of an Apache.”
Chevie half smiled. “Shawnee, if you have a burning need to know. Now, enough small talk. There’s a bar behind your head; grab it with your right hand.”
Riley did was he was told, and having an inkling of what was coming, spread his grip to widen the span of his wrist, but to no avail.
“Sure, kid. Oldest trick in the book. What? You think I graduated from Idiot College last semester?”
“Why do you refer to me as ‘kid’? We are of the same age or thereabouts.”
Chevie leaned across Riley and snapped a metal cuff over his wrist.
“Yeah? Well, I’m seventeen, actually. And you don’t look a day over twelve.” She ratcheted the cuff tight, hooking the other end on the bed railing.
“I am four and ten,” retorted Riley. “And due a stretch any day. This time next year I’ll be towering over you, miss.”
“I am thrilled to hear that, kid. Until that great day dawns, you’ve got one hand for eating and scratching your behind, though I recommend you eat first.”
Now that the boy was secured, Chevie wedged the door open with a chair so she could keep an eye on the pod room, just in case something else decided to come through.
Riley jerked his chain a few times to test its strength and Chevie grinned.
“Everybody does that, but let me tell you, those cuffs have a tensile strength of over three hundred and fifty pounds, so you are wasting your time.” Chevie shook her head. “There’s a lot of time wasting going on around here today; you have no idea.”
Riley suddenly felt like crying, and almost as suddenly felt ashamed of himself. Crying would not get him away from Garrick; backbone was the order of the day.
“Miss, you need to let me loose before he gets here.”
Chevie pulled up a steel chair, spun it on one leg, and sat, leaning her elbows on t
he back.
“Oh, yeah. He. Death, right? He is Death, and Death is coming. The bogeyman.”
“No, no bogeyman. Garrick is flesh right enough. He done for old yellow-blood, and he’ll be doing for us soon if we don’t get a little wind under our sails and leave this place, wherever it is.”
Chevie almost pitied this filthy urchin until she remembered the first time she’d laid eyes on him. “Tell you what, kid. Why don’t we forget this Death character for a minute and focus on why you killed the old man?”
Riley shook his head. “Not me, miss. I never did. It was Garrick.”
Chevie was pretty good at reading people, and this kid’s face was wide, with heavy brows, a pointed chin, and a mop of hair that could be any color underneath the dirt. His eyes were a startling blue, at least the left one was; the right eye seemed to be mostly enlarged pupil. In short, an innocent kid’s face, not a murderer’s face. Unless he was a psychopath.
“Oh, yes. Garrick. Mr. Death. Or perhaps Mr. Nobody.”
“You’re mocking me, miss. You think I’m a liar.”
Chevie scowled. “Stop with the miss stuff, kid. You’re making me feel like a grandmother. Call me Agent Savano. Don’t go thinking we’re friends, now; I’m just being civil, and I don’t want to judge you until all the facts are in. And, to answer your geographical query, we are in London, England.”
The boy was obviously disturbed by this news. “London, you say? Is it true? But then he is already here. There is no time, Agent Sa-van-o. We must get away from here. Can you summon the orange magic?”
Orange magic. Agent Orange, thought Chevie, hearing the penny drop at last. Now I get it.
“Listen, kid. If this Garrick person does exist, and he is stuck on the other end of the orange magic, there is no way in heaven he’s going to show up here. Understand?”
The boy’s odd eyes grew no less wide or wild. “No way in heaven, but perhaps a way in hell.”
Chevie snorted. “You Victorians are pretty melodramatic, aren’t you? What’s your name, kid? I can’t go on calling you kid all day.”
“I am called Riley,” said the boy.
“Something Riley? Or Riley Something?”
Riley shrugged. “I don’t know this, Agent Savano. Garrick never knew either. One name was all that was needed. The note left with me simply read, ‘This is Riley, a waif in need. Look after him.’ I was on the point of being boiled up by cannibals when he found me. Killed the bunch of them, he did, made the last one chew on a hunk of his own leg as a lesson.”
“I am totally not liking this Death, magician, one-name calling, alleged time-traveler killer.”
Riley sighed. This lady was not giving Garrick his due, but how could she? Garrick was a unique creature, and his wrath could not be appreciated without being seen or experienced. Riley would have to grind a plan from his own brain, and perhaps distract his captor for a moment to buy time to think. Riley raised himself a little and nodded at a tattoo on Agent Savano’s bicep.
“What is this arrowhead marking, Agent? Are you a sailor?”
Chevie tapped the blue mark. “This is the Chevron, and I was named for it; but that’s a story for another day, when I visit you in prison, maybe.”
The lady had not fallen for his ruse.
“I am innocent, miss . . . Agent. You must let me go.”
Chevie stood up, twirling the chair under her palm. “I’ll have to get back to you on that, once I review the video. I’ll bring you some McDonald’s in an hour. Until then, don’t go anywhere, time traveler.”
Riley watched the door close, thinking, Time traveler?
And, What is a video?
And, Why would she bring me Scotsmen? What help would that be?
The hazmat team was unlike any hazardous materials team that Chevie had ever seen. There was no sign of the white virus overalls, or wi-vi suits as the federales had nicknamed them; instead the four agents were dressed in what looked like synthetic rubber, and they seemed pretty ripped for a science squad.
Chevie jogged along the basement corridor to Agent Smart, who was strapping a crossbow across his chest.
“What are these guys? Chemistry ninjas? And why are you bringing that bow?”
“So many questions, Agent Savano.”
“Yeah, well I’ve been a little out of the loop around here. Nobody mentioned time-traveling witness protection even once before today. Now everyone’s jumping into the past except me.”
“You don’t have hazardous materials training, Chevie. This squad does, plus they have serious combat skills, too. As for our outfits and equipment, our clothes are hemp-based and will biodegrade in the open air, and the weapons are high-end design but not too sci-fi for the locals, should we meet any. We go back, clean up, and beam home. And if something does get left behind in the field, then there’s no domino effect.”
“With respect to the . . . er . . . domino effect, why don’t you go back a little early and rescue your father? Now that you have his Timekey and know exactly where he was.”
Agent Smart shook his head. “You didn’t read the entire file, did you, Chevie? Wormholes are a constant length to the nanosecond. Think of them like straws; you move the front and the back moves too. So, if an hour has passed here, then an hour has passed there. This particular wormhole measures just under a hundred and twenty years, so that’s how far we’re going back.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Not long. Ten minutes, tops. Any more than that and we’re dead, and you’re to shut this thing down, dismantle the pod, and go home to California.”
“Way to think positive, Agent. What are we going to tell the fire brigade this time?”
Smart pulled a full face mask over his head. “Not a problem. I’ve powered up the dampers; no blackouts this trip.”
Chevie surveyed the time squad, clad head to toe in padded black body armor, bristling with blades and bows.
“You guys look futuristic, even with the old hardware. What happens if you get caught before the hemp melts? The boy, Riley, swears there’s some kind of magical killer back there.”
Smart’s voice was muffled by the filter over his mouth. “Ah, yes. The bogeyman. It’s classic transference, Savano. Blame Mr. Nobody. Even if there is some Fagin person back there, I think my boys can handle him.”
Chevie thought so too. These guys looked like they could take down a small country.
“What if there’s an earthquake, and your boys are stuck in the rubble?”
“Well, that’s what the red button is for, though these suits have been in storage for fifteen years, so I hope the mercury switches still work.”
This statement brought the gravity of the situation home.
“Self-destruct?” said Chevie. “You are kidding me? This isn’t an episode of The Twilight Zone.”
Agent Smart’s shoulders jerked as he chuckled. “Yes, it is, Chevie. That’s exactly what it is.”
Chevie did not chuckle; she had a sense of humor, but selfdestruct jokes were not to her taste.
“So I gotta just twiddle my thumbs here while you machonerds are off straightening time dominoes?”
Smart froze. “Macho-nerds? Straightening time dominoes? Do you know something, Agent Savano? I think you have grasped the essence of what’s going on here, and I never really thought you would. Some people’s biggest muscle is in their trigger finger, but you have held it together admirably during this stressful time, and without shooting a single person.”
Chevie stared. Was Smart taking the time to make fun of her? Or was he simply a robot?
“Are you sure you should be heading up this operation? Maybe I should relieve you?”
Suddenly the four ninja-nerds pulled their sidearms from holsters on the coat hanger.
“Don’t say the R word, Chevie,” advised Felix. “This mission is pretty important. Nobody wants to end up not existing because my father polluted the timeline.”
Chevie backed down not one inch. “Yeah,
well, you tell your boys that when they get back, I’ll see them in the gym, two at a time.”
The hazmat team lowered their guns, gazing at Chevie, heads cocked in surprise, like lions challenged by a little mouse.
“They don’t say much, your lab buddies.”
Smart opened a series of laptops on a metal table; thick cables flopped onto the floor from the rear of the computer bank and wound their way across to the WARP pod. He quickly tapped in long code sequences.
“That’s why I like them, Agent. They just do their jobs, no small talk.”
The laptops were old and chunky, with raised letters on the keyboards that glowed green and were not in the usual qwerty order. Chevie tapped one casing, to check whether it was actually wooden.
Smart slapped her hand away. “Don’t poke the equipment, Agent,” he admonished. “This stuff is ancient alternative tech. We don’t even have the parts to repair this anymore.” “Shoot, I got some wood in my room.”
Smart ignored her comment and continued his systems check. As he typed, the pod shook itself awake, vibrating and venting steam like a very old fridge. The banks of square lights flickered in complicated patterns, and the fat power lines buzzed with barely contained megawatts of electricity. In spots, the rubber melted, exposing fizzing wires.
The entire setup reminded Chevie of old sci-fi series she had seen on cable reruns.
This is how people thought the future would look on last-century TV. Cheap and flashy.
Laser beams shot out from several nodes on the pod, connecting to form a lattice around the ship.
Lasers? thought Chevie. It’s a time machine, all right. I feel like I’m going back to the seventies.
It took several minutes for the WARP pod to warm up. It shrugged, coughed, and hummed into life, six electric motors clattering into action at its base. Chevie was quite glad that she was not among the group waiting to step into its belly to be dematerialized. Eventually the pod hovered maybe half an inch above its trailer and the various lights flashed in perfect harmony, except for the ones that popped and crackled.
“Okay,” shouted Smart above the electrical din. “We have ninety-seven percent stability. That’s good enough.”