The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  “I’m honored.” Seamus was surprised that McCullen would allow his guests to stop in the middle of their festivities to watch something that he had created. There was something suspicious about it.

  “But back to my ball. It’s going to have an Egyptian theme, though I wouldn’t expect you to dress the part. Although, seeing your lovely friend Miss Sanchez in a gauzy, sleeveless Egyptian gown would be a feast for the senses.”

  “You leave her be.” Seamus was at attention now. The vapid talk about balls and parades had lulled him into complacency. Seamus had been absently sipping at the claret and was half finished. It wasn’t enough to cloud his mind, not hardly. It would take much more to get him drunk. But this was a reminder to stay alert.

  “Don’t be so tense, Seamus. I told you I am not seeking a wife. Although you seem taken with her.”

  The men around them had returned to their conversations. Seamus spoke very low, so only the two of them would hear. “I didn’t come to talk about Miss Sanchez. I came to talk about the engines. Did you know they are ripping holes in time? In the wall between worlds?”

  McCullen motioned a server over to refill their glasses.

  “The rips, they’re marked by shimmers in the air,” said Seamus. “Like mirages. They can open and reopen. I was down near the Steamboat Festival site, and I saw one of them. They’ve reopened, McCullen. Someone could come through from the past or the future.”

  “And you know this how?” Now McCullen’s look was intense, almost frightened. It confused Seamus. What did McCullen have to fear?

  “An educated guess. I’ve seen through one, and if light can pass through, then it stands to reason that matter can also. Did you know that you were using matter from another world when you made the engines?”

  “What do you think? Have I ever done things accidentally?”

  “Not once,” said Seamus. It was true. McCullen had planned his escape from prison from the day he arrived and had planned their new life in New Orleans as soon as he knew they could get to the city. Seamus would be shoveling horse manure in Tasmania had it not been for McCullen’s planning.

  “You say that you saw these shimmers near the Steamboat Festival site,” said McCullen. “What exactly did you see when you looked through it?”

  Seamus told him about the man in the metal boat and McCullen’s eyebrows raised. “Fascinating,” was all he said.

  “The rips are unpredictable,” said Seamus. “And they appear to be getting larger, if my calculations are correct.”

  “They usually are,” said McCullen. Seamus was surprised at the compliment. “But with time, don’t you think they could be used as doorways?” asked McCullen.

  “Are you mad? Taking people from other worlds?”

  “No, no. I mean, us, going to somewhere else.”

  “The ultimate escape,” muttered Seamus. “No thank you. I’m quite happy here.”

  “I have heard of similar doorways,” said McCullen. “At a few places. Old stone circles, some hilltops, places like that. Back home.”

  “Faerie stories for children,” snorted Seamus. “Did your wet nurse tell them to you?”

  “Don’t mock me. Your description, the mirage, doesn’t it sound familiar? People out of their own time? Like the faerie stories from our boyhoods. People go to the fairy circle and vanish for years, or forever. And men lost in the deserts of the Sahara, seeing a mirage, buildings, women, things that aren’t there, then returning twenty years later. Holes in time.”

  “Preposterous,” said Seamus, but only halfheartedly.

  “And if those stories are true, then these shimmers, these holes, are naturally occurring. And if that’s true, then they must close on their own. People return to those stone circles and faerie hilltops and never find the doorway again. So they must close safely.”

  “We have no scientific evidence that those stories are true,” said Seamus. “Drunken people get lost, travelers become disoriented.”

  McCullen was undeterred. “But if they are naturally occurring and if we can create them, then we could harness them. Just as lightning is untamed electricity, but we can make batteries that generate electrical current, so too we could find out how to use these rips.”

  “Ripping doorways in time is the work of a madman. Only a fool would think that he could control them. If even one person accidentally came through, it would be terrible.”

  “You seem terribly concerned with people accidentally falling through. It’s not as if we would set up a doorway and then walk away. Besides, these people who fall through the naturally occurring holes, they never get home. People vanish every year, from big cities, from little villages. They just vanish. What if some could find their way home?”

  McCullen was watching his reaction too closely. This conversation was getting far too close to reality and Miss Sanchez.

  “Just promise me something,” said Seamus. “Stop selling more engines until we understand how the time rips work.”

  “Oh no, I won’t do that. Not when we are so close.”

  “We?”

  “You’re a countryman, so yes, we.”

  “Close to what?” asked Seamus.

  “The engines create so much energy. I’m working on improving them currently to do even more. Come work with me. Together, we can make weapons that will wipe the English pigs off the map. And if we planned it correctly, our country wouldn’t have to fight alone.”

  “A war?” said Seamus. A war was coming, but was this how it was to start?

  “If you like. This country’s war would simply be the first act of the play. In addition, we can use our natural advantage over the common man to make ourselves wealthy, influential, whatever we liked. You could go home, see your family. Maybe there is a pretty girl waiting?”

  “There is no girl,” he said, but a few faces flashed through his mind, girls back in Ireland who he had loved, or liked well enough. They would all be married by now, with gaggles of little ones pulling at their skirts.

  “Your Miss Sanchez, then. Wouldn’t she like some pretty things? A house even grander than yours? Jewelry? Servants and a fine carriage? They think it makes them look greedy to admit it, but women desire these things.”

  “I didn’t come for courting advice. Nor am I interested in causing a war or ripping holes in time. Honestly, man, you intend to use your engines for this purpose?”

  “Not solely, no,” said McCullen. “The engines could do so much for the poor, the working classes. Would your father have liked a self-propelled plow? And would your mother like a machine that washes clothing?”

  “A clothes washer with an engine?” Seamus had to stop himself from laughing. “And what, a steam-powered octopus that waves the clothing in the wind to dry?”

  “Whatever we could imagine. And I think I could imagine quite a lot.”

  “You were ever the man with the ideas.”

  “I need you, Seamus.”

  “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have had me arrested. And refused to share information on the engines.”

  “How did you figure out the engine? I must know.”

  “I need to be going. Please consider ceasing engine production. If you do, I may consider working with you again.”

  “I will consider it, as long as you consider my thoughts on the English.”

  “Very well,” Seamus said. But he knew he would not. He could not use his talents to create weapons. He refused to hurt a man unless it was in self-defense. He and McCullen could arm the Irish. But then, giving arms to his countrymen, in itself, would be an invitation to war. His people would not hesitate to use their advantage to fight against those who had tormented them for so long. No, the weapons could never be made, not with his help. Seamus finished off his claret and stood. McCullen stood as well, and Seamus was mi
ldly surprised at the show of equality.

  McCullen offered his hand. “Perhaps next year’s ball and parade will have a Chinese theme. With fireworks.” He smiled a little, contemplating the thought. “Your Miss Sanchez could come. I’ve heard that they bind the feet of women in China, and your Miss Sanchez has the tiniest feet.”

  Chapter 27

  “You didn’t need to come with me for this,” the Professor said. Hazel didn’t know if he was speaking to her or to Miss Sanchez. “You can go home right now if you like.”

  “We don’t mind, right, Miss Sanchez?” Hazel said, glancing at her hopefully.

  Miss Sanchez agreed. Hazel knew that it would cost the Professor extra to have their coach wait for them while they visited St. Louis Cathedral, but Hazel felt better staying with both Miss Sanchez and the Professor. The coach was partially filled with parcels of clothing. The Professor had insisted that Hazel get girl’s clothing instead of running about in trousers. He also insisted that Miss Sanchez buy a ball gown for some big party the following night. Hazel knew that Miss Sanchez already had a pretty gown, but Seamus had hated it because it was from McCullen.

  The Professor hadn’t been thrilled to accompany two females on a shopping trip and had spent a good part of the day leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Occasionally, he had pulled out a notebook and jotted down some equation or idea. Hazel was glad he was there, and she was unspeakably grateful that he had not said anything when he caught her scanning the street for her uncle.

  “Are you okay, Hazel?” asked Miss Sanchez as they crossed the square. Hazel had learned what “okay” meant, since Miss Sanchez used the term frequently. “We can go straight home if you like.”

  “I’m all right. He won’t be here. He goes to Mass, but would never set foot in a church any other time.” Hazel tugged at her dress. It was soft cotton, in a pale blue shade with minimal ruffles. It was not uncomfortable, but she felt strange in it.

  “I’m going to take a look at my wee babbies,” said Seamus “They’ve been neglected.” He rushed into the cathedral, perhaps grateful to be away from all the ribbons and frippery. He would be upstairs with Brother Joe while she and Miss Sanchez stayed below.

  “What is he looking for?” asked Hazel.

  “McCullen is letting all of the people who attend his ball come here to see the midnight automaton show,” said Miss Sanchez. “The Professor is suspicious that he’s planning something with the cathedral. And the show is tomorrow night, so he has to make sure the machines are all in order. Brother Joe can set them up, but the Professor wants to look them over.”

  “All this is for Mardi Gras? That’s so strange,” said Hazel.

  “In my world, there is a huge parade with parties and drinking for Mardi Gras.”

  An infant idea stirred in Hazel’s mind, but it did not coalesce. Miss Sanchez pulled open the heavy wooden front door and they entered the dark, cool interior of the cathedral. The church was of the standard shape, with two rows of pews on either side of a tiled aisle. The pews were old and worn from decades of use, but the sisters managed to keep them clean. Hazel scanned the pews and corners for people. They were alone.

  Two upper galleries ran along either side of the church with two rows of gilded Corinthian columns supporting them. The outermost halves of each set of pews were under the gallery overhangs. Over the main aisle stretched a long arched ceiling with medallion-shaped paintings of Christ, the apostles and various saints, surrounded by ornate golden frames. Hazel had spent many an hour staring at them or at the stained glass windows. To one side was St. Blanche and St. Cecilia and, of course, various scenes from the life of St. Louis himself. On the other side of the church were scenes from the life of Christ. Miss Sanchez paused before the picture of the sacred fire of the Holy Ghost raining down upon the saints and the Blessed Mother.

  “When I was your age, I never understood the whole, ‘tongues of flame’ thing,” Miss Sanchez said. “Such a weird idea.”

  Hazel didn’t know what to say. She had never given it much thought. It was simply another theological mystery to her. Miss Sanchez moved on to get a good look at the Rococo altar and at the retablo, the wall behind it. The retablo was gilded and full of little niches for statues and paintings. Miss Sanchez contemplated the items in silence, her lips pressed tightly together and her eyes narrowed. Hazel turned to look back toward the entrance of the church.

  “A few weeks ago, I heard that they were going to be putting in a new steam organ,” Hazel whispered. “I haven’t heard it played yet. The music is my favorite part of church.”

  “Do you play the organ?”

  “No. I learned a little piano before I found that I liked the violin best.”

  “Have you asked the Professor for a new one?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “It never even occurred to you, did it?” asked Miss Sanchez, giving her a sidelong look. The idea made Hazel uncomfortable. The Professor’s kindness and generosity were already more than she deserved. Asking for anything more would be churlish and the height of selfishness.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t go home,” Hazel said. “You would have a good life with the Professor. He likes you.”

  “He feels responsibility for me. Like he does with you.”

  “No. Mrs. Washington said that you’re good for him, and I agree with her. He’s happier. He swears and drinks less and spends less time in his laboratory.”

  “That’s because he’s been running around, getting in trouble on my behalf.”

  “But you like him. Don’t you think he’s good looking?”

  “What are you asking me that for?” Miss Sanchez’s voice had risen and Hazel was glad the church was empty.

  “I’ve heard a few women say as much. And I have eyes in my head. I don’t like boys much, yet, but I know what handsome looks like.”

  “Let’s drop it, okay?”

  “I hope you don’t go home.”

  “Why would you say something like that?” Miss Sanchez looked hurt.

  “Should I lie? I want you to stay. And besides, just because you come from somewhere doesn’t mean that it’s where you should stay. Maybe God didn’t want you in that time anymore.” Hazel glanced toward the crucifix.

  “I hardly think God had anything to do with it. It was a freak accident of science.”

  “An accident,” muttered Hazel. The same thought tickled in her mind again. She wandered around the church while Miss Sanchez studied the stained glass windows. After a while, Hazel’s thoughts formed into something coherent.

  “The Professor said you came through to our time in front of his house when there was an omnibus accident.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you were just walking and you fell through?”

  “No. I was on a bus. A motor bus. Not steam powered, but sort of like the ones you have. And I saw the shimmer in the air, and then there was a man from your time who was thrown from a horse. I wanted to help him. My bus crashed somehow into the omnibus, and I found myself here.”

  “So your bus was traveling in the same space as the omnibus, but in different worlds?”

  “I suppose. Yes. And then two parts of time intersected.” Miss Sanchez’s eyes scanned the ceiling.

  “And where the Delphia Queen was docked, do you have ships there?”

  “Yes. There are ships there.”

  “So it happens where things are the same on both sides of the time rip.”

  “My God, Hazel.” Miss Sanchez looked at her in astonishment when a door opened at the far front corner of the church and the Professor stepped out.

  “She’s figured it out!” said Miss Sanchez, rushing to him. Hazel watched the Professor’s face light up when he saw Miss Sanchez.

  “Figured what out?” he asked.

>   “Tell him, Hazel.”

  “In Miss Sanchez’s world, the omnibus and her motor bus were in the same place. And the river has ships in both times. I think that’s why the rips formed in those places.”

  “Similar things happening on both sides of the doors?” Seamus muttered. “Could be.”

  “A synchronicity,” said Miss Sanchez.

  “What an interesting word,” the Professor said. “But never mind that. If McCullen was right, then those stone circles and hilltops, they’d have people repeating actions there through the years. People walking the same paths. Desert caravan routes also have people moving in repeating patterns. Yes, synchronicities.”

  “And Mardi Gras will be the biggest synchronicity of all,” said Miss Sanchez. “People traveling the same streets, the floats.”

  “Floats full of McCullen’s engines,” added Hazel.

  “But how would McCullen know about Mardi Gras in your time?” said the Professor. “Unless he’s fooling me. He’s a perfect liar. But he has no reason to open more rips. There has to be something else.”

  The Professor headed down the aisle toward the doors and Felicia and Hazel trailed behind. As she got closer to the front of the church, Hazel looked up and saw the organ.

  “Professor? We should look at the organ.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They put in a new one.”

  “Why would that matter?” asked Miss Sanchez.

  “There are engines that run the air pumps,” said the Professor. He turned away from her and dashed around to one side, taking the stairs two at a time. Hazel sprang up the stairs behind him and knelt to see what he was looking at underneath the keyboard.

  The Professor sent her to fetch Brother Joe and amid the brother’s protests, the Professor removed the organ’s covers and poked around inside. After taking forever looking through the parts, the Professor collapsed on the bench and sighed.