The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  “The hole is like a needle hole. That’s when McCullen’s portion of the engine takes over. Matter, air specifically, is taken in as a catalyst. It has to be air, as that’s everywhere. And since nitrogen is the most abundant element in air, he’s using that. But it’s different than our nitrogen because it’s from another world. That’s the catalyst that makes the engine able to produce so much power. The better the catalyst, the more energy it can break down which means heat, energy and steam for the machines. This all happens inside the machine, in a secondary part of its very core. That’s how that bastard McCullen is able to have an engine that produces more energy than it should.”

  He stopped and faced Mr. Grey and herself. His eyes were dancing and he was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. For an instant, she thought he was going to take a bow, but instead he spun around to grab something from the table.

  “So can you get Miss Sanchez home to her own time?” asked Mr. Grey.

  “Not yet,” said Seamus.

  “What does he mean?” asked a voice behind Felicia. She turned to find Hazel behind her. The girl popped the last piece of a butter cookie into her mouth and looked from person to person. She wore the boy’s clothing she had gotten a few days previously. But then, she didn’t have any dresses except for the one she had worn home from the hospital.

  “What does he mean about going home to your own time?” asked Hazel. She caught a glimpse of Mr. Grey, and seemed wary, but he gave Hazel a polite nod and turned to watch the Professor.

  “It’s all right, Hazel. Come on in,” said Seamus. “You might as well know. Everyone else seems to. Well, close the door behind you. I don’t want poor Mrs. Washington getting any more gray hairs than she already has.”

  Hazel shut the door and circled the disassembled engine. “This is the thing we wanted the plans for at McCullen’s house?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “And it can send Miss Sanchez home?”

  “It can. With luck,” said Seamus.

  Felicia saw that Mr. Grey was partially turned away, but she knew he was watching Hazel from the corner of his eye.

  “Home being her own time. That’s what Mr. Grey said. But that doesn’t make any sense,” said Hazel.

  Mr. Grey looked from Felicia to Seamus, waiting for one of them to answer Hazel. When neither of them did, he looked down at the floor.

  “So this machine, you said something about a shimmer,” said Hazel.

  “How long were you listening?” asked Seamus, but Felicia could tell that wasn’t upset with the girl.

  “You said this thing can make shimmer doors or some such thing, yeah?”

  “Yes. Doors to other times. Miss Sanchez comes from another time. The early twenty-first century, over a hundred sixty years from now,” Seamus said. He spoke quickly, presumably assuming that Hazel would keep up. She knew that Hazel was bright, very bright, and she appreciated that Seamus didn’t treat the girl any differently than he had when she was a boy.

  “Is that why your feet are like that? What, do they cut off your toe there?” Hazel asked, turning to Miss Sanchez.

  “No, we’re born like this,” said Felicia.

  Felicia watched Hazel glance at Mr. Grey’s feet, and he looked up at her. She looked away quickly. He wore the same type of shoes that everyone else did.

  “How’s that work then?” Hazel said. “A hundred fifty years and people are missing toes? That’s not right. No, there’s something else to this.” She looked to the adults, and stopped at Felicia. “And you were talking about that Lincoln fellow and Buchannan and how they were supposed to be presidents. Like you knew what was going to happen in the future.” Hazel stopped and looked at the Professor. “And you said that the air is pulled into that machine from another world or time or universe.”

  “That’s right,” said Seamus.

  Hazel turned to Felicia. “So like the air, you’re also from some other place or world, then. You got pulled through instead of the air?”

  “Ha! That’s my girl,” said Seamus and mussed her hair. She pulled out of reach and swatted gently at his hand.

  “It’s not exactly like that. But the doors, rips, whatever you like to call them are impossible to control,” said Seamus. “From what I can tell, they’ll open and re-open over and over, growing larger and larger.”

  “That’s bad then?” said Hazel.

  “Very,” said Mr. Grey.

  Seamus sighed. “The hole in front of the house appears to have closed on its own. No more shimmers. But the one where the Delphia Queen was docked is still opening and closing. McCullen needs to stop allowing these engines to be used.”

  “Then someone needs to tell him,” said Felicia. She didn’t like McCullen, but he seemed to have a strange fascination with her. She might be able to coax him into at least considering not using the engines. He was greedy, but even a greedy man could see the danger in ripping holes in time to power steam engines. “We can go together.”

  “Not we, Miss Sanchez,” said Seamus. “I alone will see him.”

  “But he seemed to like me. Maybe I could—”

  “Out of the question. He is not a man with whom you would wish to have a better acquaintance, I assure you. On Mondays, he likes to dine at his club, Blanchard’s. Women aren’t allowed. I will have to go alone.”

  Felicia bristled at being set aside so easily. Well, if Seamus failed, she could always visit McCullen on her own. There was no law about women hiring coaches and visiting with whomever they pleased.

  “And what about you then?” Hazel asked Mr. Grey. “What are you going to do?”

  “Anything I can, Miss Dubois.”

  Mr. Grey excused himself and Hazel ran off to find Mrs. Washington. Felicia moved to stand beside Seamus as he rifled through pages of notes.

  “How close are you to being able to send me back?” she asked.

  “Not very. I’m sorry, but I cannot see any way to regulate the place or time that the holes lead to.”

  “But with time, you could figure it out?”

  Seamus stopped and turned to her, then turned back to the notes. “I will not lie to you or give you false hope. I cannot promise anything.”

  “Then I may be trapped here, in this horrible time.”

  “There now, lass. It’s not so bad. You said yourself that slavery will end with the Civil War.”

  “Yes. There’s that. But it’s more. There’s my nephew. And even if he were healthy, a woman in your time is supposed to keep house, sew and cook. I can’t do any of that. And women can’t vote or be on juries.”

  “You want to be on a jury?” Seamus looked puzzled.

  “Well, no actually. I always tried to get out of jury duty. But my point is that here, I’m a second-class citizen. Third class, if anyone finds out I’m Mexican-American instead of the supposedly superior Castilian.”

  “But you’re working on your penicillin. And you said there are little things called germs that cause disease. You know about other medicines and treatments. You can help people here,” he said.

  “But I’m meant to help people back home. And where will I live? It’s not as if I can buy a house or rent an apartment, can I?”

  “There are boarding houses for female factory workers. You could get housing there. But I have the space. You are welcome to stay here as long as you like. We could tell people we are cousins. There would be no scandal.”

  She was trapped. The hope of finding a way home was fading, and the hopelessness of her situation enveloped her. Trapped in this time, with this culture, was a horror. The past existence of such suffocating, painful rules of race and sex was bad enough, but that she would have to live out her life forced to abide by them was too much to bear. She turned to him.

  “Tell me, why were you
playing with that engine? Didn’t you consider the consequences? Maybe you didn’t know that a person could come through, but you could have blown yourself up, or set the house on fire with Mrs. Washington in it. Didn’t you learn anything from blowing up your laboratory? You had to keep screwing around with dangerous machinery, didn’t you? When you saw that tube of blue stuff, didn’t you stop and think that it could possibly be something beyond your expertise?”

  The hurt look on his face told her she had gone too far. “Perhaps my work is not always safe,” he said. “And I take a few risks I shouldn’t. I am responsible for what happened to you, and I will make it up to you. If that means that I spend years finding out how to send you home, I will not stop working until I discover the answer. And until then, I will ensure that you come to no harm. If you leave, it will be of your own free will. You can stay here as long as you like.”

  Seamus had taken a step toward her, and she had to tip her head up to look him in the eye. He was sincere, and sad. Her anger dissipated a little.

  “I would not wish to stay where I am a burden,” she said. “I’ll stay for a while until I get my feet, but then I will strike out on my own. I’m thinking about becoming a nurse. Maybe even the first female doctor.”

  “Certainly. Yes. That’s fine. Whatever you like,” he turned back to his pages, though he didn’t seem to be focusing on them, just moving them from one stack to another.

  “One question though, as we’re going to be housemates for a while,” Felicia said.

  “Yes?”

  She hesitated. She didn’t want to push him to give her information he did not want to. But she was still angry, and she wanted to know.

  “What is your name?”

  He paused, but only for a second.

  “Seamus Doyle.”

  Chapter 26

  As his hired cab pulled up to the curb, Seamus put on his top hat and took up his walking stick. He had worn his nicer clothing and knew he looked the gentleman from his best top hat to his polished shoes. As long as he didn’t allow Oren McCullen to goad him into saying anything hot-headed, he would have no trouble at Blanchard’s.

  The gentleman’s club was on a side street, one door down from a busy avenue filled with upper-class shops. Blanchard’s had no shingle hanging overhead, nor did it have painted lettering on the windows to indicate what sort of establishment it might be. Its patrons knew its location, and anyone else who required the knowledge would find out by word of mouth.

  Seamus knew from experience that Blanchard’s rarely opened its curtains, as the men inside were either engaged in talks about business or politics or they were simply seeking respite from the company of their wives. A woman who came to Blanchard’s, even a wealthy matron seeking her husband, would be politely asked to wait just inside the door. She would not be asked into the dining area nor would anyone offer to take her wrap or hat. The club was a haven of masculinity. Even the wait staff was all male.

  Seamus only knew a few men who had memberships at Blanchard’s. Most of the professors at Tulane did not, although a few of the deans and department chairs did. The professors who did have memberships were seeking advancement, presuming that acting like one of the higher-ups would grant them access to the administrative echelons of the university. Seamus had no such aspirations. He had no desire to be promoted out of his laboratory. He had obtained a membership at McCullen’s insistence when they first gained positions at the university. McCullen had insisted that they ensconce themselves in their adopted world, taking full advantage of the new start that their fabricated identities allowed them. But Seamus had only come to Blanchard’s on rare occasions, being perfectly content to smoke or read or drink in his own home.

  Seamus entered the club and a host took his hat, coat and walking stick. The interior of Blanchard’s was clean, if dark, and the air was thick with fragrant tobacco smoke. It was the supper hour, and most of the men were eating in small groups, or chatting and enjoying the fine wines and cigars that the establishment provided.

  “I am here to see Mr. Oren McCullen. He is not expecting me,” Seamus informed the host. Though he was a member, barging in on another guest during a meal would be rude.

  “And your name, sir?”

  “Mr. Connor.”

  “And may I inform him of the nature of your visit?”

  “Tell him it is a matter of great importance.”

  The man dipped his head and went through an archway at the back of the room. A few moments later, he reappeared.

  “He is ready to see you,” the host said.

  Seamus was not surprised in the slightest that McCullen was willing to see him. He either knew Seamus would beg to see an engine, which would gratify his enormous sense of pride in his own genius, or he thought that Seamus truly did have something significant to tell him, and needed to satisfy his curiosity.

  McCullen sat at a table at the back of a second room. In front of him stood a crystal glass of claret, an open book and a half-finished plate of herb roasted pork, collard greens and potatoes. How McCullen managed to eat potatoes without all manner of terrible thoughts ruining his meal was beyond Seamus. He could not abide the things.

  “Mr. Connor,” said McCullen, closing his book. He put a slight emphasis on the name, just enough to remind Seamus that he knew his true name. “Please have a seat.” McCullen turned to the host. “Another glass for my friend, if you please.”

  Once the host was out of earshot, Seamus said, “It’s about the engines. They’re dangerous. Not just the explosions, but something else.”

  “Have you eaten? I can ask for another plate to be brought out,” said McCullen. The second glass of claret arrived and Seamus took it.

  “I’m not hungry, thank you.” He sipped the claret and set it down. “We need to talk about the engines.”

  “A little softer, if you please,” said McCullen quietly. “Little pitchers have big ears.”

  There were a few other men in the room, all of whom were silent. Were they just enjoying the quiet or were they listening in? Seamus supposed that most men of influence did not get where they were by being ignorant of the intrigues and secrets of others.

  “Would you like to speak in Gaelic then?” Seamus asked quietly.

  “Surely not. That would be even worse.”

  “Ah yes, a savage tongue for a savage people,” Seamus quoted one of their English prison guards who had enjoyed beating prisoners for invented offenses. If people heard McCullen speaking another language, it would make him seem more foreign, and that was precisely why McCullen had done his best to lose his accent.

  “Will you be attending the ball I am hosting tomorrow evening?” McCullen asked brightly.

  “I don’t believe I was invited.”

  “Your invitation must have been misplaced by my secretary. I insist you come. It’s going to be the grandest ball ever hosted in this city.” He leaned forward, and in a quieter voice said, “I know you haven’t attended many, so you will have to trust me that it will be the grandest.”

  “Why a ball? Are you looking to meet a pretty debutant to marry?” Seamus had never known McCullen to have much interest in seeking a wife, but then, neither had he. Endangering a woman by enticing her into a marriage using a false identity was unconscionable, especially if one had a criminal past.

  McCullen said, “Since acquiring my fortune, I have found myself a subject of interest to matrons hoping to marry off their daughters. But no, it is simply for the public enjoyment.”

  “But the public aren’t invited to your grand ball,” said Seamus.

  “Of course not. The rabble have their Mardi Gras parade, and those of the upper crust have their ball. It’s a very simple solution.”

  “So it’s a ball for Mardi Gras?”

  “Isn’t that what I said? Yes, on Mardi Gras.”r />
  “Why such a fuss over the day? It’s not as if you are especially devout.” McCullen was Catholic, as were all the Irishmen Seamus knew, in name anyway. But the Tuesday preceding Ash Wednesday and the following forty days of penance that comprised Lent had never been significant for McCullen.

  “Well, some friends of mine and I thought it would be great fun. Give the people something to look forward to between Christmas and the warmer summer months. And it’s one last hoorah before all that righteous sour-faced prayer and fasting that we have to endure until Easter. Some people don’t eat meat for the entire forty days. Can you imagine?”

  “They haven’t seen what we have,” said Seamus. “We’ve fasted enough for ten lifetimes.”

  “It’s not fasting if you have no choice, but yes. I intend to eat as much as I like while I can.” McCullen patted his stomach, which had grown a little bit since their time in Mountjoy Prison. All of the prisoners had been gaunt there. Thankfully, the two of them had gotten out before their teeth loosened and they developed permanent physical afflictions.

  McCullen looked down into his glass and then drank the last of his claret. Seamus could tell he was remembering other times, perhaps a family. McCullen refused to ever speak of his past before the prison, other than in the barest detail.

  “Tell me about this Krewe Taranis,” said Seamus.

  “Now, I know you wouldn’t be interested in such a group. You are far too happy working in your laboratory and too disinterested in amassing a fortune or any social influence. It’s almost endearing. A member of the krewe would never be found mucking about with the clockworks in that cathedral of yours. Speaking of which, I have made a decision. The ball will be having an intermission of sorts just before midnight so all the guests can go and see the automaton display.”