Madman's Dance (Time Rovers) Page 39

  He turned his attention to the view. It was breathtaking, though wet. Still, the rain didn’t seem to dampen the festive mood on the streets. People were milling about, setting up in their favored locations to watch the Lord Mayor’s Show. He remembered seeing it as a child, fascinated by the golden coach that carried the Lord Mayor to the Royal Courts, and the wicker figures of the two giants, Gog and Magog, the guardians of the City of London.

  In any other circumstance, he would have felt on top of the world. He was experiencing life as it really was in the late nineteenth century. Now he understood why Harter lived for this sort of adventure. It had been so many years since he’d felt this alive. What was technology compared to this?

  Theo peered down at the street. He knew what was about to happen, but if he tried warning people, who would believe him? He could go to the government, but that risked exposing the Transitives or getting him locked up as a loony.

  “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” he muttered.

  Now I sound like Jacynda.

  Hours passed. Just as he was about to head down the stairs, the first explosion lit up the sky. It was to the northeast of the church, near Bethnal Green.

  Below him, people on the street grew uneasy, talking amongst themselves. He made note of the time on his interface: half past eleven, just about when the Lord Mayor reached the Royal Courts of Justice. Precisely five minutes later, another detonation.

  The family hurried down the stairs, along with the other onlookers. At street level, people began to disperse, moving toward their homes. Theo took a deep breath and waited. Two blasts were not enough to create the destruction he’d witnessed.

  With clockwork precision, ten more explosives followed at exactly five minutes apart, spreading in a line from north to south, the final one near Limehouse.

  Theo frowned. That didn’t explain the Rotherhithe fires. Gritting his teeth, he waited. Ten minutes after the last blast in the East End, they began again on the south side of the river. There were seven of them and they were exactly twenty minutes apart.

  After making the requisite trip to empty his bladder, it’d taken him two transfers to zero in on the location of the first explosion. The trips took their toll, rewarding him with a buzzing head and a churning stomach. Still, he was where he needed to be. Jacynda could not handle this sort of travel now. Though her Endorphin Rebound was in remission, it could easily return. They couldn’t chance that.

  He was the best choice for this—the freshest of the Rovers.

  A Rover? Not really. He didn’t have what it took to do this day to day. What he did possess was an analytical mind, and that might tip the balance.

  Once he’d found the location of the first explosion, he cautiously moved into a dismal rear yard behind an equally dismal tenement. Mud puddles dotted the ground. The yard was a jumble of abandoned items, all of it useless. Victorians wasted little. From recycled dog muck to ashes from the fireplace, they found a use for everything. If anything was left out where it could be stolen, it was truly junk.

  Something caught his notice—a half-sized barrel jammed up against the gas pipe, partially covered with a ratty tarp. It would have been easy to miss it in the scattered debris. Theo knelt and gently pulled back the covering. Something was scrawled in red paint on the side of the barrel.

  “R12:7.” He frowned. Twelve explosions in the East End, seven in the Docklands. What did the “R” stand for?

  Three sticks of dynamite were attached to the back of the cask, one with a detonation cord. There didn’t appear to be any other mechanism to trigger the explosion, which meant the bomber would have to go from barrel to barrel to start the process.

  “Too crude,” he said, frowning. Yet the detonations had been precisely five minutes apart. How did they accomplish that?

  Now what? If he moved the device, someone would know he’d been here.

  Theo returned the tarp to its original position and stepped back. A moment later he was on the move, in search of the next site.

  ~••~••~••~

  Thursday, 8 November, 1888

  Arundel Hotel

  Six p.m. on the dot. Cynda snapped her interface shut with more force than necessary, swearing under her breath. She’d been put to sleep about eleven in the morning and now it was seven hours later. No Theo.

  “You’re a dead man, I swear it,” she groused.

  “You can’t murder your boss,” Mr. Spider advised, scooping up a scone morsel from a plate on the writing desk.

  “Why not? He drugged me.”

  “He knew you needed rest.”

  “Okay, so I’m rested. Where is he?”

  “Playing Rover. Why don’t you just admit it? You’re worried.”

  “Hell yes, I’m worried. Do you have any idea of what will happen if he gets hurt while I’m supposed to be watching him?”

  The arachnid gave her a stern look. “It’s more than the paperwork and you know it.”

  She opened her mouth to toast the little nuisance, and then groaned. “Yeah, I know. I’ve grown rather fond of him.” More fond than was probably sensible. “He might be smart, but he’s not a Rover. He doesn’t have our instincts. Those only come with experience.”

  “Neither did you in the beginning.” The creature scoured the plate in search of crumbs. “Are there any more scones?”

  “No. You’ve had enough.”

  The spider’s response was uncivil.

  Until now, she’d held off contacting Ralph to see if the boss was in 2058. If Theo wasn’t there, that’d just raise alarms and possibly put TPB on his tail.

  Ten more minutes then I rat him out.

  Three minutes later Cynda stood in front of the kneeling figure, tapping her foot, hands on her hips. The moment her boss looked up, she planned to nail him. Then he looked up. He was pasty gray, his eyes unfocused. His fingers clutched the interface, turning white at the knuckles. Classic time lag.

  She dropped to her knees. “Theo?”

  He gaped at her in wonder. Carefully prying the interface out of his hand, she wound it to recover its past history.

  “Eight trips? You idiot!”

  “Had to,” he said, weaving like a cobra captivated by its handler. “Know what happens.” A pause, and then he stared at her as if she’d just appeared in front of him. “Hellooo?”

  Not good.

  “Come on, boss, let’s get you to bed.”

  “I’m Theo,” he corrected, trying to frown, but failing.

  “Okay, Theo. Time for you to get some rest.” So you’ll have some brains left when this is all over.

  He squinted at her. “You’re pretty. Have I ever told you that?”

  Oh geez. Time lag came in a couple versions. Lag usually made Jacynda bitchy. Rumor said Defoe was the same way. Other Rovers acted drunk, like they’d had one too many casks of rum. Evidently, her boss was one of those.

  “Great,” she muttered, hauling him to his feet.

  “The room is spinning,” he announced. “Counterclockwise.”

  You sure I can’t kill him?

  “It’s looking better every minute,” the spider replied.

  “The bed’s yours,” she announced, hauling Theo in that direction.

  “Alone?” he said, quirking an eyebrow.

  That’s payback. She’d once said the same thing to him during one of her bouts of severe lag.

  “Yes, on your own.”

  “Pity, you’d be fun,” he said, nearly mirroring what she’d said to him.

  Maybe he’s not as lagged as I think.

  She sat him in bed, pulled off his shoes and coat. All the while, he gazed at her, enraptured. He needed an endorphin rise to counter the lag and the quickest way to achieve that was chocolate. She handed him a piece from the stash in her Gladstone. Theo acted like he had no idea what to do with it.

  “Ralph always opened them for you,” her delusion suggested.

  Thanks. She peeled open the Victorian-style wrapper. “H
ere you are.”

  “Don’t like it,” he said, pushing it away.

  “Eat it anyway.” He shook his head. She counted to ten. “Eat. The. Chocolate.” Or I will stuff it up your nose.

  “Does it work that way?” Mr. Spider asked, dubiously.

  We’ll find out.

  Four pieces of chocolate later, Theo’s eyes appeared less glazed—a sign his brain was coming back online. That eased some of Cynda’s anxiety. If he could recover this fast, he’d probably not done any permanent damage.

  “Read notes. On interface,” he muttered. “Fulham sending maps.”

  “Was it the Fenians?”

  A light snore was his reply.

  Chapter 13

  “Okay, I won’t kill him,” Cynda announced. Luckily Theo was asleep so he couldn’t hear her. “Actually, I’m very proud of him.”

  As he’d painstakingly hopped all over Lord Mayor’s Day, then at set intervals into the future to judge the fire’s progress, Theo had dictated comments into his interface.

  “I didn’t know you could do that. I really should read the holo-manual some day.”

  The interface beeped. Text appeared in the air above it, an incoming message. It wasn’t from TEM Enterprises.

  Cyn?

  Hi Ralph. Why you at Guv?

  Until the boss returns, company’s locked down.

  “Locked down?” What about his sister? she typed.

  TPB’s not touched her. We just can’t do business as usual. Fulham and I are at Guv now. How’s the boss?

  Sleeping. Tried to fry his brain with all the transfers.

  He learnt from the best. Sending you maps and newspapers.

  Thanks.

  There was a long pause. Be careful. This looks way bad. Another pause. Love you, Cyn.

  She whistled under her breath. He’d never said that in all the years they’d known each other. It felt final.

  Love you too, guy. Keep the lamp lit, will you?

  You got it. Log off.

  Logged off.

  The maps appeared shortly thereafter, a stark blueprint of London’s devastation. The explosives ignited fires along the south side of the river in Rotherhithe, and in the East End. Driven by a strong wind, the flames moved resolutely westward. By the end of the first day, they’d reached the Aldgate Pump near Leadenhall Street. By the third, they were consuming St. Paul’s, and by the seventh they were turning Britain’s beloved national art treasures to so much powdery ash. The fire storm finally died out almost ten days later, coming perilously close to the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey. By Fulham’s estimates, nearly seventy-five percent of the city would be destroyed.

  Three-quarters of London gone. It was unfathomable, even though she could trace the fire’s path on the map, street by street. Cynda heaved a sigh of relief when she realized that Alastair’s house was still there, miraculously untouched. Annabelle’s Boarding House was gone; so was St. Botolph’s Church, Spitalfields Market and most of the pubs she’d frequented.

  “Pratchett’s is gone,” her delusion observed, poised on the side of the map. “This hotel, too.”

  “Scotland Yard and most of Whitehall,” Cynda added. “At least it didn’t reach the Wescombs’ house.”

  A familiar sound made her turn. Three newspapers sat in a pile on the floor, the whirling colors of the transfer fading as she watched. She scooped them up. The newspapers were from Scotland and Ireland. Not a surprise: the presses in London wouldn’t be functional for quite awhile.

  The first one was dated November 16, a week after the fire began, and it detailed the locations of each ignition point in the East End.

  Words leapt out at her:

  HORRIFIC LOSS OF LIFE

  Riots widespread–Army called out

  Jews, foreigners and Irish face street justice

  Mobs roam West End–hundreds dead

  By the time she reached the final newspaper, published on the last day of the year, she could hardly breathe. The articles spoke of armed mobs, mostly in the posh West End. They’d stormed houses, robbing, raping and murdering with little police interference. Mayfair, Kensington and Marylebone were the hardest hit.

  “The Wescombs live in Marylebone,” her delusion said.

  “I know.”

  By the time London finally regained control of its streets, nearly ten thousand souls had died by fire, disease or anarchy.

  The heart of the British Empire was about to sustain a massive coronary.

  We have to find a way to stop this.

  ~••~••~••~

  “This is unbelievable,” Keats exclaimed, bending over the map he’d spread out on the writing table in Cynda’s hotel room. Alastair peered over his shoulder. “I realize you know things we don’t, but this is so outlandish, Jacynda. This must be a mistake.”

  She glowered, not in the mood for this battle.

  “Remember, this is their home,” Mr. Spider whispered from her shoulder. “Imagine what you’d say if someone told you everything you care for was about to be destroyed.”

  Her delusion was right. She softened her tone. “I saw it for myself. London will burn if we don’t stop this.”

  Keats was unconvinced. “Are you sure you’re well? You were hallucinating for a time and—”

  Alastair gently touched his sleeve. “If you look closely, you’ll see small burns on her cheeks and hands. This is real, Keats.”

  The sergeant loosened his collar. “How far does the fire extend?”

  After directing a nod of gratitude to Alastair, she pulled out the second map, laying it over the first.

  “It burns for ten days?” Incredulously, Keats traced his finger west until it halted near the Westminster Bridge. “That far.”

  Alastair raised his eyes from the documents. “How bad does it get?”

  She placed the newspapers in front of them and then retreated to the window as they sifted through the articles. Below her, people bustled along the street. Some carried baskets, no doubt with food purchased for the holiday. Food that might never be eaten.

  She heard Alastair murmur, “My God. So many dead.”

  “I see Newgate Prison survives,” Keats observed sardonically. “How fitting.” Pages rustled as he began to count the circles on the map. “Nineteen explosions?”

  Theo’s groggy voice came from the bedroom doorway, “They use a half-barrel of gunpowder, three sticks of dynamite.” He was haphazardly tucking in his shirt, oblivious to the startled expressions from their visitors.

  “Go back to bed,” Cynda ordered. “You need your rest.”

  “Just make the introductions,” he retorted, running a hand through his hair in an effort to tidy himself.

  She opened her mouth to argue, but decided against it. “This is Dr. Alastair Montrose,” she announced, “and Detective-Sergeant Jonathon Keats.” She angled a thumb in Theo’s direction. “Gentlemen, this is T.E. Morrisey, my boss, and the man who made time travel possible.”

  “I am honored, sir,” Alastair said, stepping forward. “I must admit to being in awe of your accomplishments.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mr. Morrisey,” Keats replied tersely, keen to get past the pleasantries. “What else can you tell us about these devices?”

  “I did not find a triggering mechanism, so they must light them by hand,” Theo replied. “Nevertheless, all of the explosions are at precisely-timed intervals.”

  “How do they accomplish that?” Keats asked.

  “I am not sure.”

  And that’s driving you nuts.

  “The newspapers say that the dockland bombs were all in warehouses owned by Hugo Effington,” Cynda reported. “That should narrow it down a bit.”

  “Still, we’ll have to go through them all one by one,” Keats muttered. “It will take considerable time.” He scrutinized Theo. “Who do you believe is behind this plot, sir?”

  “The Ascendant,” Morrisey said. “It’s why he had Adelaide Winston murdere
d, to buy himself time. As Intermediary, she was pushing for his replacement.”

  “How in heaven’s name do you know—” Keats began.

  “I’m one of you.”

  The two Victorians traded looks.

  “Hezekiah Grant is your leader at present. Do either of you know him?” The two men shook their heads. “I’m not surprised. He seems to have led a nondescript life,” Theo said.

  Cynda scowled. “Not very nondescript when he orders people killed right and left.”

  “That wasn’t in his original timeline,” Theo explained. “Something has happened to him.”

  “Or someone,” she mused. “I keep wondering where Copeland is in all this. It’s not like the old military jock to be out of the picture for very long.”

  “Who?” Alastair asked.

  “Someone from our time,” Theo answered. His tone said he wasn’t willing to say more.

  “He’s not one of the good guys,” Cynda explained.

  Keats shifted the top map aside, staring hard at the one indicating the primary detonation sites. “Destruction of this magnitude will disrupt Parliament, even the Royals. In catastrophe, there is always an opportunity for assassination.” He looked up. “We have to inform the chief inspector. He must take precautions to secure the city and protect the Royal Family.”

  “He’s not going to believe Jacynda is from the future,” Alastair protested.

  “Just tell him I have inside information,” Cynda advised. “He might think Pinkerton’s has better sources than the Yard.”

  “Then let’s hope he’s in a receptive frame of mind. He was very dismayed this morning when I suggested we might be involved. Now I have to tell him just how bad it can get.”

  “Take the first map, not the second,” Theo said. “Hint at the level of destruction. That’s all he can know.”

  Keats nodded, rolling up the appropriate document and tucking it under his arm.