Lost In Time

by W M Wiltshire

  “Even though the pace at which a constable walks his beat is no longer stipulated, I’ve noticed that they still stick to the old time. They still cover their beat, making a complete circuit every ten to fifteen minutes.”

  “What did you do? Time them?” Frank grunted.

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” Daric replied. “And so could any criminal, or in this case, murderer. He would know how often a constable would appear at one point along his route and he could figure out that he would have ten to fifteen minutes to commit a murder and disappear before the constable completed his circuit.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Sergeant William Thick walked past Frank’s desk, pausing momentarily at Frank’s outburst. Thick was a twenty-year veteran with the Metropolitan Police, having served the majority of that time in H Division. He was a stout man with a pleasant face that sported a drooping yellowish mustache.

  “And, as a criminal, I could detect the approach of the constable by the distinct pace he walks and by the sound of his leathery footsteps,” Daric concluded. He now waited to see whether Frank had followed his line of thinking.

  “You expect me to believe a criminal can tell when a police constable is approaching based purely on timing and what did you say,” Frank took a quick glance at Thick, but continued uninterrupted, “the sound of footsteps? Sergeant, tell me you think this lad’s off his crumpet.”

  “If I agreed with you, Frank, we’d both be wrong,” Thick replied, resuming his duties. Frank just huffed in response.

  141: Present Day

  Quinn walked to the back of the gazebo, flipped the cover plate and inserted his USB key. The lower level access panels opened. “Follow me,” Quinn said, as he started to descend. Richard didn’t have to be told twice. He jumped out of his chair and followed Quinn.

  “Whoa, where did all this come from? This is amazing, Quinn,” Richard remarked. He needed to act surprised by what he was seeing. After all, this wasn’t his first foray into this level, but, as far as Quinn knew, it was.

  “This is where the real work is done,” Quinn continued indifferently. He was standing in front of his computer console. With one wave of his hand, the console came to life.

  Richard stood beside Quinn. He looked at the complex series of equations projected on the wall. Richard was very skeptical, but intrigued at the same time. “So, are you trying to tell me you built a time machine? An actual DeLorean time machine, one with its own flux capacitor?” Richard mocked.

  “It’s nothing like the DeLorean,” Quinn retorted. “That was pure science fiction in those old retro movies. This is real science. Science based on quantum physics.”

  “Go on,” Richard encouraged.

  “I won’t bore you with the headache-inducing mathematical equations. Suffice it to say, those old science fiction movies got one crucial piece right . . . the extreme power source required for time travel,” Quinn disclosed. “Quite simply put, in the past, we lacked the technology and the ability to generate enough power to make it happen. Until now, that is.”

  “Explain yourself,” Richard demanded.

  “While Sandra and I were cave diving in New Zealand four months ago, we came across a mineral I’d never seen before. I took a small sample home to test its atomic structure. It wasn’t until after I’d finished the testing that I realized I’d found something exceptional. This mineral contained an unusual combination of properties that could generate extraordinary energy, the likes of which I’ve never seen or heard of before,” Quinn explained, barely able to contain his excitement. “I named it chronizium, after Chronos, the Greek god known as the father of time: empirical time, which is divided into past, present, and future. Not to be confused with the deity, Aion, the father of eternal time,” Quinn prattled on. Then he quickly refocused. He didn’t need to waste time spouting trivial details to Richard.

  “With the chronizium, I now have the required power source. And with today’s post-silicon computers and unlimited access to information, technology is no longer the issue it was in Einstein’s era.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you found a new energy source?” Richard asked condescendingly.

  “By programming the chronizium’s properties into the computer, I could build the necessary algorithms for Hermes to solve the problem that had defeated physicists for decades: quantum gravity, the amalgamation of general relativity and quantum mechanics,” Quinn claimed proudly.

  “Hermes?” Richard asked

  “You called, Professor?” Hermes popped into full view on the five-by-five-foot platform.

  “What the hell is that?” Richard cried, jumping back at the sight of a toga-clad hologram.

  142

  “No, Hermes, I didn’t call you,” Quinn muttered in frustration. “But, now that you’re here, I’d like you to meet a colleague and dear friend of mine. Hermes, this is Richard Barak Case. Richard, this is Hermes, my artificial intelligence,” Quinn completed the introduction, rather awkwardly. He sometimes found it difficult to remember Hermes was simply a program and not a real person.

  “So, that’s what the platform is for,” Richard mumbled, not realizing he had put voice to his thoughts.

  “What?” Quinn asked.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Richard Barak Case,” Hermes interjected. “I must say Barak is a very unusual name.” He was fully aware of what Richard had just uttered, but kept that information to himself, for now.

  “It’s been handed down through our family for generations,” Richard pronounced. “Its origin is . . .”

  “Hebrew and means flash of light or lightning,” Hermes finished.

  “That’s correct,” Richard said. “How could he know that?” Richard glared at Quinn.

  “Hermes is a second generation cognitive computer designed to mimic humans. He learns, he senses, he adapts. I don’t program him, so much as I teach him how to learn; as a result he is much more efficient than computers where you have to type in millions of lines of code just to get the computer to do what you want.”

  “Are you trying to tell me he’s human?”

  “Close, but not quite,” Quinn said proudly. “Humans are more efficient in how they interact with their environment, compared to a computer. It’s this fact that drove me to change the architectural premise of how Hermes runs.”

  Richard walked around the hologram, admiring the attention to detail. “He looks so real,” Richard said awestruck.

  “He’s been linked to the most sophisticated and most respectable sources of data with his primary objective being time travel: from Einstein’s theories, to quantum physics, to cosmic strings, black holes, and, of course, wormholes,” Quinn said with pride, as a father would, talking about his accomplished son.

  “Let’s, for argument’s sake, say, I believe you. How does our time travel device work exactly?” Richard asked skeptically.

  “Have you ever wondered whether bridges or portals to the past or the future could exist within the laws of nature?” Quinn asked.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever given it much thought,” Richard replied nonchalantly, but he couldn’t help but be very intrigued.

  “Well, there are. These bridges or portals are essentially tunnels through time, shortcuts between two points. They’re called wormholes.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of wormholes. But they’re found in outer space,” Richard said tersely.

  “Wormholes exist all around us. They’re just too small to see. They’re smaller than a molecule, even smaller than an atom. They exist in a place called the quantum foam.” Quinn realized, based on the glazed look on Richard’s face, that he was getting too detailed again.

  “What if it were possible to capture a wormhole, then expand it to be large enough for a person to pass through?” Quinn asked, anticipation creeping into his voice.

  “That’s a pre
tty big ‘what if’,” Richard jeered.

  “The wormhole would virtually be a bridge between two points in time,” Quinn explained.

  “And you’re telling me you’ve actually built a machine that will do all that, will enable you to travel through time?” Richard couldn’t believe what he was asking.

  “Not a machine, per se, but a device. Here, let me show you.”

  Quinn walked to the small metal table where he picked up one of the two small bands. He held it up so Richard could see it.

  “This is what I call a travel band. You wear one on each wrist. In the simplest terms, when the bands touch the chronizium particles imbedded in the bands react to generate sufficient energy to capture a wormhole from the quantum foam. The wormhole expands and pulls the traveller through the opening, along a tunnel in time and out the other end, collapsing upon the traveller’s exit.”

  “Kind of small for your wrist, isn’t it?” Richard said sarcastically, still trying to digest this incredible story.

  “These two bands were for Bear,” Quinn explained, pointing to the other small band in the container on the table. “I was going to test them on her first.” Quinn placed the small band back in its container and picked up the two larger ones.

  “These contained the travel bands I was going to test. But, somehow, Daric and Dani got in here and now they’re both in London,” Quinn said sadly.

  “So?” Richard wasn’t following Quinn.

  “They’re in London, England, in 1888,” Quinn stated. “I have to get them back.”

  “Oh my God!”

  143: Friday, September 7, 1888

  The weather today was worse than yesterday. There was still no sunshine and heavy squalls were expected to roll in from the north. It seemed that everyone was out to get their errands run before the worst of the storm hit.

  Annie had returned to the Crossingham’s Lodging House, entering through the back kitchen door. She ran into Timothy Donovan, the house’s deputy. “Where have you been, Annie?”

  Timothy Donovan had a thin, pale face and was a dour-looking man for his young age of twenty-seven years. Ill humour usually came from hardships endured through the years; Donovan wasn’t old enough to bear such a grim countenance.

  Timothy Donovan had known Annie for sixteen months as a prostitute and four months as a lodger. And never in that time had she ever been an offensive soul, except that one incident with Eliza Cooper. Annie was still sporting the shiner Eliza had given her.

  “I haven’t been feeling well, so I checked myself into the hospital for a few days,” Annie replied weakly. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pillbox. It fell apart, scattering pills all over the floor.

  Annie bent down to retrieve her pills. Donovan stooped to give her a hand. He had to admit, Annie didn’t look well at all. Annie picked up a torn piece of an envelope she found near the fireplace. She placed her pills in the envelope and folded the side inward to keep the pills from escaping a second time.

  “Why don’t you rest here a spell?” Donovan offered. Annie nodded her acceptance and then Donovan carried on with his business.

  After about an hour, Annie thanked Donovan as she prepared to leave. “I haven’t sufficient money for a bed, but don’t rent it. I shall not be long before I am in.”

  “You can find money for your beer, but not for your bed,” Donovan replied coldly. He was convinced Annie was drunk.

  “Never mind, Tim. I shall be back soon. Don’t rent my bed,” Annie said firmly. And with that she left the premises in search of her doss money.

  The rain was driving hard, and the temperature had dropped by the time Annie left the warmth and the safety of the Crossingham’s kitchen.

  144

  Daric walked up quietly behind Clara, who was vigorously scribbling notes in her notebook. Her last interviewee had just left, giving Daric the perfect opportunity to stop by to say hello. He had been trying for hours to talk to Clara, but she had set up back-to-back interviews in the pub all day. There had been no break in the flow of traffic until now.

  Clara was so engrossed with what she was doing she didn’t hear Daric’s approach. “Hi.”

  “You scared the Dickens out of me,” Clara chastised, placing her hand over her heart.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Daric apologized.

  “You’re forgiven. Besides it was my fault. I was just too focused on my work and wasn’t aware of my surroundings.”

  “That’s not a good thing, especially around here.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Daric,” Mr. Farrow hollered. “I need you to bring a keg up from the basement—now!”

  “Don’t leave. I’ll be right back.” Daric took off to complete his task as quickly as possible. He knew it was late, and it was around this time that Clara made her way home, alone. But not this time. Daric was determined to accompany her. He was going to do his damnedest to keep her from any harm.

  By the time Daric returned upstairs, his task completed, Clara had gone.

  “When did she leave?” Daric asked Mr. Farrow.

  “Who?” Mr. Farrow grunted.

  “Clara Collet,” Daric snapped. “She was sitting over there,” he added, pointing at the empty table by the front window.

  “Oh, her; nice little thing, she is,” Mr. Farrow sneered.

  “When?” Daric demanded.

  “Steady on,” Mr. Farrow growled. “She left not more than five minutes ago.”

  “Okay.” Daric rushed behind the bar and snatched his coat and hat.

  “But I think you’re too late, lad,” Mr. Farrow said.

  “No, I’m not. I can still catch her.”

  “No, I mean you’re too late, ‘cause she left with another man,” Mr. Farrow grinned. “Well, not really left with, but he headed out right after her.”

  With that, Daric flew out the door and down the street in pursuit of Clara.

  145

  Clara had to admit, she had been a little unnerved by Daric’s remark. She knew she was working in a rough neighbourhood, but that was part of the job. She had accepted that risk when she took the position. The research work she was doing was extremely important, not only to her, but to the women who lived and worked in the East End.

  Clara had been lost in her own thoughts when she abruptly stopped. She thought she heard footsteps behind her. She turned to find the dimly lit street empty. She shrugged and continued on her way. Damn you, Daric; you’ve got me spooked. There it was again. Instead of stopping and turning around this time, she stepped up her pace.

  When Clara turned the next corner, she could have sworn that she heard running footsteps. They were rapidly coming up behind her. She was beside herself; she wasn`t sure what to do. Thank goodness she always carried her sturdy brolly. She turned it around in her hands and held it like a baseball bat, with the thick handle at the opposite end. She pressed herself against the wall, listening as the runner rapidly approached. She had to time this perfectly; she thought.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . She swung the brolly with all she could muster, striking out at waist level, catching the runner right in the mid-section, just as he rounded the corner. He doubled over, grabbing his gut. She raised the brolly for another blow to the back of his head when . . .

  “Wait, it’s me,” Daric barely got out between gasps for breath.

  “Daric, what are you doing here?” Clara said, reaching down to help Daric straighten up. He was still clutching his mid-section.

  “I asked you to wait. I wanted to walk you home,” Daric said raspingly.

  “I think you witnessed, first-hand, that I can take care of myself,” Clara teased.

  “Apparently,” Daric conceded. He gently clasped Clara’s hand. “Now that I’m here, allow me the honor of escorting you home.”


  “I’d be delighted.” A faint smile edged Clara’s lips. She leaned in and placed a conciliatory kiss on his cheek.

  * * *

  Hidden behind a corner within earshot of the couple, but cloaked in darkness, was the stranger from the pub, the man who had left directly after Clara. He was wearing an Inverness coat, a deerstalker hat and carrying a Gladstone bag. He wasn’t thrilled with the events that had just unfolded. He had had plans for this evening and they had been ruined by that damned Daric.

  I’ll get even, he thought. He turned around and retraced his steps. He had to make other arrangements for the evening.

  146: Present Day

  “You’re actually asking me to believe that Dani and Daric have travelled through time and are now in 1888, in London, England?” Saying it out loud made it sound even more ridiculous, especially to Richard’s ears.

  “Yes, I am. I was so focussed on completing my computations for time travel to the past, because it was the more difficult of the two, that I haven’t completed my computations for time travel to the future, yet,” Quinn said, somewhat embarrassed to have left something unfinished. He was meticulous when it came to ensuring he had every ‘T’ crossed and every ‘I’ dotted.

  “But you said it works. What does it matter which way you go: forward in time or backward?” Richard asked pointedly.

  “I have to finish my work in order to bring Dani and Daric forward in time, to the present day—to bring them back home. Right now, every time they travel, they go further back in time,” Quinn explained.

  “What do you mean, ‘every time they travel’? How many times have they traveled?”

  “Twice. First to California in 1937; then to London in 1888,” Hermes disclosed.

  Richard had forgotten Hermes was even there. Richard glanced over at Quinn, who nodded solemnly. Richard then turned his focus back to Hermes and asked, “How do you know where they are? Or when, for that matter?”