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She frowned. “Not sure. Go on.”
“Everything has a time string, a series of ‘nows’—this couch, you, me, the Earth, everything. All of the different strings weave together as they extend forward into time.”
She felt her fear drain even more, banished by the academic tone of the discussion. “So your people see time as a physical dimension—like width, length, and depth.” Jane rubbed a hand over her belly, where the sore muscles still protested her bout of vomiting. “Okay. So?”
“Let’s say when we made the throw, we took one string from here”—he pointed at one end of the throw—“and looped it around to here.” He pointed at a spot in the middle. “Then wove it back in for a few inches, and then we looped it back to the point it came from.”
“So if that string is a time traveler...”
“Everything he did during his Jump happened before he was born.”
She dug her fingers deeper into a particularly stubborn knot of aching muscle. “So that old paradox about going back in time to shoot your own grandfather so you’d never be born...”
“...couldn’t happen, because you didn’t shoot your own grandfather. Your gun would misfire, someone would wrestle you to the ground, something would stop you. That’s why I couldn’t prevent Mary Kelly from being murdered. One theory has it that the only possible paradox is when someone doesn’t go back in time when they’re supposed to, to play whatever role they’re supposed to play. TE makes sure that doesn’t happen.”
“What if they don’t?”
Baran shrugged. “There have been a couple of times TE has decided not to transport somebody, only to have a TE agent from the future pop in and Jump the individual anyway. But theoretically, if you didn’t end up where you were supposed to go and do whatever you were supposed to do... it would create a ripple effect. Every action has consequences that affect other actions, which affect other actions, and so on. So if you’re not there, the things you don’t do cascade into the future, getting worse and worse. Almost instantly, the entire time plane would rip itself to shreds. Everyone who’d ever existed would die, past and future.”
She stared at him, blinking at the image of such sudden, incomprehensible destruction. “But what about the real Jack the Ripper?”
“What real Jack the Ripper?” Freika asked, tilting his head in a gesture of canine puzzlement.
“The original Victorian guy who did those killings. If Druas killed Mary Kelly before the real Jack got a chance, then wouldn’t that have caused one of these paradoxes?”
Baran shook his head. “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you. There was no Victorian Jack the Ripper. It was always Druas. He went back in time and killed those women, just as he killed the one tonight.”
“That’s why they call it ‘time travel,’ Jane,” Freika said, and twisted his head around between his hind legs.
Jane eyed him as he went to work. “You know, if you’re smart enough for sarcasm, you’re smart enough to know it’s rude to lick your own genitals.”
The wolf looked up. “You’re just jealous.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, then stopped. “Well, yeah.” Shrugging, she turned to Baran. “Let me get this straight—Druas went back in time to commit the crimes of Jack the Ripper. But if there really had been a Victorian Jack, Druas would have killed not only the first victim, but triggered the destruction of the entire universe—including himself?”
“Basically.”
“What a lunatic.”
Freika glanced up at Baran. “My. She is clever.”
“I think I like you better when you’re licking your own backside.” To Baran, she continued, “So it’s not really me TE sent you here to save. It’s the universe.”
He shrugged. “Basically. But the end result is the same. I will save you.”
Jane frowned as a new and unpleasant thought struck her. “How do you know that, Baran? What if they just sent you back here because this is where you’re supposed to be?” Her voice rose. “What if that bastard gets his hands on me anyway, and does to me what he did to Mary Kelly?”
“He won’t.”
“What do you care?” She stood up, unable to sit still any longer, red nightmares spinning through her mind. “I’m nothing to you, any more than I mean anything to those sick bastards who’re paying Druas to kill me for their entertainment. I’m just a victim. Just like that poor lady tonight. Just like Mary Kelly.”
Anger stirred behind his eyes. Apparently he didn’t like having his word questioned. “When I say I won’t let you die, I mean it. I don’t make empty promises.”
“How do you know you can even stop it, Baran?”
“How does anybody ever know they can do anything? You just do it.”
“What are you, a Nike commercial?”
“Protecting people is what Baran does,” Freika said. “It was what he was created to do: He’s a Viking Class Warlord. He can no more fail to protect you than he can stop breathing.”
Jane snorted. “I’d probably find that a lot more comforting if I knew what the hell a Viking Class Warlord is.”
He and the wolf exchanged a long look, as though in silent communication. Finally Baran said, “Like Freika, I’m genetically engineered. Almost a century ago, genetic designers on Vardon created a warrior class called Warlords, designed to act as the planet’s protectors. They made us several times stronger and faster than an ordinary human the same size. And I’ve got cybernetic implants in my brain and muscles that enhance my natural abilities even more.”
“And he’s instinctively protective,” Freika added. “They breed the desire to defend into the Warlords. He would literally die to protect you, without any hesitation at all.”
Looking into the wolf’s crystalline blue eyes, she found herself believing him. Jane swallowed and looked away, finding the moment too intense for comfort.
Warm fingers closed around her wrist, drawing her into a warm, dark gaze. ‘Trust me,” Baran said quietly.
“It’s not as if I have much choice.”
He stood in a smooth rush of muscle and rustling leather. The top of her head barely came to his shoulders. “You’re right. You have no choice—except to trust me and do exactly what I tell you to do. Not if you want to live.”
“And what exactly are you telling me to do?” She folded her arms. Perversely, it felt good to challenge him rather than let herself be borne helplessly along on his strength.
“Cooperate. I’ll have to be with you every minute. And I do mean every minute. The fact that Druas can Jump means he could simply transport wherever you are and kill you before I even know what’s happening—unless I’m right there. At all times.”
Oh, that was going to be fun. “How are you supposed to fight him?” she asked, frowning as she considered the implications. “I mean, if the guy can just teleport or Jump or whatever the hell you call it, how are you going to catch him? Can you Jump, too?”
“No. I don’t have a suit; TE transported Freika and me here. But I can keep him from Jumping.” He lifted a big hand and spread it. She blinked, focusing on the long fingers, the broad, square palm. It looked intensely masculine, that hand. Intensely skilled. “...power pack neutralizer,” he was saying.
She shook her head. “What? I didn’t hear that.”
The wolf snickered. “No, you were wondering if the size of his hand matches the size of his—“
“Freika,” Baran interrupted in cool warning. He stepped in closer to her, and this time she managed to focus her attention on the gold ring he wore. The band was filigreed, incongruously delicate on such a big man, and the red stone seemed to glow against his tanned skin.
“TE gave me this ring,” he explained. “If I can get close enough to Druas, press it against his temporal suit and hold it there for several seconds, the pulse it generates will wipe out his suit’s power pack. He won’t be able to Jump.”
Jane frowned. “Several seconds is a long time in a fight.”
“True.” He shrugged. “I’m going to have to pin him down somehow.”
“Which puts you back in the same boat—getting close enough for long enough.” She dragged her hands through her hair in frustration. “So what are we going to do, just wait for him to show up and kill me?”
Baran’s ringed hand came to rest on her shoulder, radiating strength and warmth. Startled, she looked up. “He’s not going to kill you, Jane.” His eyes were so dark, so rich, like pools of dark chocolate....
“At the risk of interrupting your mating ritual,” Frieka said, “it’s been three hundred years since I had anything to drink. I have three choices—I could go outside and look for a stream, I could drink out of the nearest toilet, or—“
“I’ll get you something.” Jane turned away from Baran, fighting the niggle of regret as his comforting hold dropped away.
“Food would be good, too,” Freika added. “Though I suppose I could hunt for myself—if you don’t mind losing your cat.”
She eyed him. “Octopussy is not wolf chow, furball. I’m sure there’s something in the freezer.”
“Don’t put yourself out.” Raising his voice, he called, “Here, kitty, kitty....”
“All right, already!” Jane stalked toward the kitchen. What the hell was she going to feed him? She didn’t have any dog food, even assuming he’d lower himself to eat it.
Steak. There were a couple of rib eyes in the freezer.
She pulled it open and reached inside, found the package, and grabbed it. Out of habit she started to check it for freezer burn.
A chunk of meat, dark red, traces of frozen blood on the plastic...
An image rose in her mind—Druas, digging Mary Kelly’s heart out of her chest.... Her ears began to buzz. She stared sightlessly at the steak, fighting to stay upright. It felt as though her throat was swelling shut. Breathe, dammit, she ordered herself. Don’t pass out on the floor in front of them. They already think I’m...
Gutless, her father’s voice whispered in her mind. I always said you were gutless.
No, she thought, fighting the well of tears. No, you’re wrong.
He’s going to kill you because you ‘re too incompetent to save yourself.
Dammit, no. She blinked the tears away. I’m not incompetent. That may have been what you told me for twenty years, but I proved you wrong. I’m aggressive, I’m tough, and I will survive this.
Only if that big hunk of muscle in there saves you. Otherwise you don’t have a prayer.
Anger flooded her, welcome and hot, chasing away the chill. Yes, I will. I’m going to beat this.
I’m going to beat you.
Baran and Freika watched as Jane started opening cabinets and rattling crockery. Because he didn’t care to be heard, Baran used his computer’s com unit to speak silently to his partner. She’s beginning to function.
For the time being, the wolf replied. Would you care to bet on how long it’ll take her to collapse again?
If she does, she won’t stay down. She’s got courage.
She’d better. Freika let his tongue loll in a lupine grin. Speaking of going down, when do you plan to spread her? I haven’t smelled so much pheromone in the air since the last time you took leave.
Voyeur.
Hey, somebody should get a little pussy on this trip.
Leave the cat alone, Freika.
Spoilsport. The wolf padded toward the kitchen. “Well, I’d better make sure she isn’t dumping horsemeat in a bowl,” he said, pitching his voice loud enough to make sure Jane could hear him. “I keep telling her I’m not a dog, but I don’t think it’s sunk in yet.”
“A little Mister Ed tartare, anyone?” Jane’s voice sounded overly bright, as if she was working hard at being cheerful and unaffected. “Never mind, you wouldn’t get the joke. This is steak, hairball. Rib eye, three bucks a pound. You should be very happy together. It’s frozen solid, so I’m nuking it for you. You want it thawed until it’s just bloody, or do you want it cooked?”
“I certainly don’t want it radioactive. Nuked?”
“Not nuked as in bombed. Nuked as in microwaved. Cooked in a microwave oven. You stick it hi the box, push the button, and magic waves of energy bombard it until it’s hot enough to scald the roof of your mouth.” Something began to hum. “See? You’re not the only master of technology in this house.”
Baran found himself grinning despite his concern. Jane’s effort at humor made him feel a bit better about her chances. She was a fighter. She wouldn’t give up, no matter how bad things got. That determination made it easy to like her.
Maybe a little too easy.
His smile faded. Charming or not, she was still a civilian, and that meant she had limits he couldn’t afford to ignore. Baran could protect her, joke with her, even seduce her, but he didn’t dare forget that when it came right down to it, she couldn’t be trusted.
Trusting a civ was a good way to get killed.
Okay, Jane thought, watching Freika devour his dinner, it was time to start taking a proactive approach. “What other information do we have about the killer?”
“Not much,” the wolf said, tearing off a chunk of meat with his teeth. Since he didn’t use his mouth to talk, he could eat at the same time. “Basically what I’ve already told you.”
“Then let’s take it from another direction. What do we know about Jack the Ripper?”
“Freika, what do your files say?” Baran asked, moving to join them.
The wolf lifted his head and swallowed. “There is no other mention of this Jack the Ripper other than the Mary Kelly trid.”
Baran grunted. “More TE games.”
“Not a problem—I know where we can get all the information on the Ripper we could ever need.” Jane turned and headed through the living room to the back room that held her home office. It was nice having something constructive to contribute. “People in this time are fascinated by his murders. There are books and Web sites galore.”
“Which may be why TE didn’t waste crystal space on it,” he observed, trailing her. “They’re nothing if not efficient.”
“Unlike Jane’s compute^,” Freika said, having reluctantly left his dinner to stick his head around the doorframe. He eyed the P.C. as Jane sat down at her desk. “What a primitive piece of junk.”
She considered flipping him off; it was a top-of-the-line machine, brand-new, with enough power to run all the graphics and layout programs she needed to put the paper together. Of course, by the standards of your average cybernetic talking wolf, it probably was a primitive piece of junk.
No doubt about it, Jane thought, turning the computer on and waiting for it to boot up. My life is getting really, really strange.
When Jane’s fingers hit the keyboard, Baran moved to her side to watch. “What are you doing?”
“Hmm?” She used the mouse to click on the icon for Internet access. At least she had a cable modem.
“With your hands.”
“Typing on the keyboard. It’s the only way to interface with this kind of computer.”
He frowned. “Why not just tell it what you want it to do?”
“It doesn’t listen very well.” She keyed Jack the Ripper into the search engine. The resulting list contained thousands of entries; she clicked on the most likely looking selection on the first page.
The site was loaded with an astonishing amount of information, everything from morgue photos to police statements to transcripts of newspaper articles of the time.
There was even the lyrics of “Sweet Violets,” the song Mary Kelly had sung to Druas. Jane printed it all out and went to the next site. Baran picked up the printouts, sat down in the second office chair, and started scanning them, Freika standing on his hind legs to read over his shoulder.
More than an hour later she turned off the computer and sat back in her seat, scrubbing her hands over her face. “Well, now we’ve got the opposite problem—too much information, most of it unreliable, and no way to tell what
Druas actually did. We can’t even be sure he killed the five that are usually attributed to the Ripper.”
The Whitechapel killer was thought to have murdered five women in London between the dates of August 31 and November 9, 1888: Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols on August 31, Annie Chapman on Septenaber 8, Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, both on September 30, and Mary Jane Kelly on November 9. But some researchers believed he’d killed other women as well, and there was considerable disagreement whether Eddowes was actually a Ripper victim at all.
“For what it’s worth,” Freika said, “the file TE gave me indicates they do think Druas murdered all five of the women.”
“That makes sense,” Baran said. “If the point is to enact the historical murders, he’d do all of them.”
Jane picked up a pencil and tapped it restlessly on the desk. “What about all those letters that were supposedly from the killer, including the one they took the Ripper name from—did he write any of them or not?” Even at the time, police believed most of the letters were frauds, written by unscrupulous journalists.
Baran shuffled through the stack. “Who knows? Though the package sent to this George Lusk with part of a kidney in it certainly might be genuine.”
“Judging from my file on him, it does sound like the kind of thing Druas would do,” Frieka said.
“Eeewww.” Jane put the pencil in her mouth and bit down, sinking her teeth in the wood while she thought. “I didn’t know the Ripper strangled those women first, but all the autopsies do seem to indicate that. The mutilations were done postmortem, getting progressively worse as he went along.” She grimaced and tossed the pencil aside. “Which doesn’t sound good for the women of Tayanita County.”
Including Jane herself. Better not think about that. She’d rather not have to race to the bathroom again.
Baran was still flipping through the stack. “What’s really ironic is all these elaborate theories about his identity. An English prince, a writer named Lewis Carroll...”