The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  “To keep an eye on you. And now I understand why. You did it. You made the machine.”

  All the pleasure that Seamus had felt at McCullen’s misfortune evaporated. If this Mr. March person was interested in him, it couldn’t be for any good reason.

  “Why don’t you come inside?” Seamus said.

  Once inside, he led McCullen to the kitchen instead of the front parlor, perhaps because it was the only room with which he was familiar. Hazel was nowhere to be seen. They each took a seat at the kitchen table.

  “He wants to stop you, you know,” said Oren.

  The kitchen clock chimed half past noon and Seamus remembered how little time he had before the time rip might shift.

  “I need to get Miss Sanchez back to my time. I don’t have time to chat with you. I’m sure Hazel can see that you have something to eat, and then you’ll have to go.”

  “Why are you taking her back to your time? Why not to her own?”

  “I haven’t found out how to get to other worlds yet. I can only travel in a limited way within my own.”

  “That is where I can help you. I understand how the power systems work in my engines. You’re better with time and space calculations, it seems, since you’re here, and I excel at power generation and delivery systems. The two of us, we could do it. We could figure out a way to travel between worlds. Take me back with you.”

  “Out of the question. Besides, it’s been six years in my time. Your company is gone. The manufactory building is being used as a Union barracks. New Orleans is occupied.”

  “Even more reason for me to find a way back to my own world.”

  If McCullen wanted to start wars and build terrible machines in his own universe, then Seamus couldn’t stop him. And in his home world, McCullen wouldn’t have ever spent time in prison. He could return to his old life, perhaps to a life of peace.

  “Tell me more about this Mr. March,” said Seamus. “Why was he interested in me?”

  “Because you were going to learn how to travel like he can. That’s all I can figure. He can travel between times and worlds, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “He simply thinks about it. And you, some Irish convict, managed to figure out how to do the same.”

  “So he had to watch me, waiting for when I’d invent the machine?”

  “I didn’t know why he wanted you watched. But when I learned that your machine could make doorways in time, I decided that it was the likeliest reason.”

  “And in trade for watching me, you were willing to take Mr. March’s assistance in developing those wretched McCullen engines.”

  “Of course I was. He wanted to help people, give us a power source that would allow technology to advance at great leaps. It was a humanitarian gesture, helping me. I decided to do a little more with the knowledge, admittedly. All I had to do was tell him what you were up to, which was mainly teaching your classes, drinking, gambling and puttering about in your laboratory. It wasn’t until Miss Sanchez arrived that the situation changed.”

  “I still don’t understand why this Mr. March was interested,” said Seamus. “If he can already travel between worlds, I’m no use to him.”

  “I was never sure. I wondered if he meant to kill you, or steal the machine, but seeing as that never happened, I don’t know.”

  “Maybe it was just a distraction to get you to start a war.”

  “I decided to do that all on my own.”

  “Did you?” Seamus really wanted to know. The man he had known in prison and with whom he worked at Tulane was not so mad as to start a war. Or was he? Oren’s hatred of the English was deep, very deep. And he had never displayed too much concern for others.

  “The hexapod was entirely my idea.”

  “You destroyed half the city with your hexapod, as you call it.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone, and I had good reason to destroy those buildings.”

  “Spare me your reasons,” said Seamus, shooting out of his seat. “You wanted to start a war that would not only involve the Americans, but the Irish people, the English, the French and God help us, the Welsh! Thousands would die.”

  “We’ve had this discussion before. The English deserve to be wiped off the map.”

  “You’re mad. Are you aware of that?” Seamus knew he was pacing back and forth across the width of the kitchen, but he didn’t care. “Completely and utterly mad.”

  “I’m as sane as you are.”

  Seamus snorted and then laughed. “I’ve spent the last six years of my life locked in my laboratory inventing a time traveling machine. Perhaps you’re right. But of the two of us, at least I wasn’t used as a cat’s paw.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A cat’s paw. It’s an old fable. The monkey wanted some chestnuts that were roasting in the hot coals inside the fireplace. So he convinced the cat to get them out for him, promising to share them. The cat reached his paw in and scooped out the chestnuts one by one. And as each chestnut was removed, the monkey gobbled it up. The cat was left with nothing but a burnt paw. He was used by a cleverer creature at great expense to himself.”

  “Now see here!” McCullen stood up, outraged. He was a proud man, and saying that he had been duped was too much for him to bear. “I wasn’t his puppet.”

  “Then why did he leave you stranded, though he could easily help you? He could take you back to my time or back to your own world where you have no criminal record. And yet, he didn’t.”

  “Understand this. When I meet him again, and I will, there will be a reckoning.”

  “Now, I might like to see that.”

  “So you’ll take me with you?” asked McCullen.

  “Why would I want to?”

  “Because without me, you can’t ever get Miss Sanchez home.”

  Miss Sanchez. Felicia. He had worked so hard to find her, and yet he was still unable to get her home. A part of him didn’t mind the thought of her being with him forever. He was fond of her. More than that. His feelings went beyond mere fondness. In the cold, dark hours in his laboratory, sometimes he had admitted as much to himself. He loved her. But when the next day dawned and his head cleared, he always reconsidered. The woman had many admirable qualities. She was intelligent, kind and brave. She was also beautiful. Nothing more. There was no need to lose his head with fanciful thoughts. And yet, the night always came again, and the circle of yellow light from his desk lamp felt so small and lonely. Without her, he was bereft. And yet, his duty, his sacred mission was to return her to her own time, far from his own.

  And after all this time, he couldn’t even accomplish that.

  Curse the scoundrel McCullen. He was correct. Though he could travel through time, barely, Seamus still was unable to travel between worlds, no matter how much he had tried to figure it out. Even though he had been the one to create the time rip through which Miss Sanchez had come, he had never been able to recreate the doorway into another world. He needed McCullen, and he despised it. But if McCullen helped him to make such a machine, then he could send McCullen back to his world and be rid of him. Then, he could help Miss Sanchez.

  “Very well. I’ll take you,” Seamus said, “but only if you understand this: It makes us even. You got me out of prison, and I got you out of the twentieth century. Agreed?”

  McCullen agreed, though Seamus knew it pained him.

  “Now, if you’ll give me a moment,” said Seamus, “I need to speak with Miss Sanchez’s supposed aunt.”

  McCullen waited in the front hallway and Seamus found Hazel in the library.

  “Do you give me your word that Miss Sanchez will find her way back?” he asked her.

  She set down the book she was reading. “I do. And it won’t be long. Only a few days.”

  “I’m going to trust you.”


  “Most likely the smartest thing you’ll do all day, you madman.”

  “Don’t you sass me,” he said, and then Hazel jumped up and hugged him.

  “I’ll call you a cab,” she said. “And Professor?”

  “Yes?”

  “It was good to see you again. Real good.”

  Chapter 7

  December 25, 1863

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Hazel reread the letter from the Professor and then sat down in front of the cold, empty fireplace in the library. He had gone to find Miss Sanchez in 1961. And should he not return for a period of one month, all of his assets would become hers.

  He might not return.

  The address of his solicitor was included. She was his sole heir, and if he did not return, she was to notify Tulane University so she could receive his pension. He asked her to make sure that Mrs. Washington received a yearly stipend upon which to retire when she grew too old to work for Hazel. He also asked that Hazel send some money to his family in Ireland, and he gave their names and the name of the town in which they lived.

  She reread the last line:

  I assure you that these are merely prudent precautions, as I fully expect to return to you within a few days, as nearly as I can figure.

  Hazel crumpled the letter and tossed it into the fireplace, where it sat, white against the blackened bricks and the ashes. She would burn it later. It would not do for anyone to discover the Professor’s family’s name or whereabouts. She knew his real last name was Doyle, but there were many Doyles in Ireland. There was no need to associate his family with an escaped killer.

  And what if the Professor did not return? She would own this big, empty house and have the income from his patents. She would be materially comfortable. And if she chose to marry, it would not be for financial security. She would be an independent woman of modest fortune, a position most women would envy.

  The Professor was infuriating, moody and frustrating. And she missed him terribly.

  It was Christmas Day, and Mr. Ross would be with his family. She needed to thank him for the silver and pearl bracelet, but she would prefer to do it the next time he called. If she married him, she realized, she would be a part of his family. His parents were pleasant people, and he had two sisters who would then become her sisters. Their children would be her nieces and nephews. And then, when she had children, she would have even more family. The thought had its appeal. It would mean a place to belong and people to belong to.

  She spent some time reading, but found it impossible to concentrate. She re-haired her bow and played her violin, playing slow sad songs, and then fast pieces, sawing almost violently at the instrument. Damn the Professor. How could he do this to her, knowing she’d be alone?

  She ate sliced cheese with bread for supper, not bothering to heat anything on the stove. It would be too much trouble for one person. She considered calling upon Mrs. Washington to wish her a happy Christmas, but the housekeeper would be enjoying Christmas with her daughter and grandchildren. Hazel would be out of place.

  She got ready for bed early, knowing she couldn’t sleep, but not knowing what else to do aside from pace through the house like a caged cat. Her mind would not be still and kept returning to the world Miss Sanchez had once described, where white and black people lived together, intermarried and where there were no slaves. She looked out the window into the night sky. That world was where the Professor was now, the world where women could be doctors and a man could walk on the moon.

  It was before dawn when she heard the voices. She leapt out of bed, recognizing the Professor’s, and ran downstairs. The two men stood in the entryway with a wheeled trunk resting between them. She knew it was the time machine, as she’d seen the thing in all of its stages of development.

  The Professor was disheveled, his hair sticking up at all angles, but that was nothing new. What was strange was that he was grinning from ear to ear while standing next to his enemy and adversary, Oren McCullen.

  “You’re back!” said Hazel. “But how is he here? And where is Miss Sanchez?”

  “Miss Sanchez will be coming along in a few days on her own,” said the Professor. “McCullen and I are going to figure out how to travel between worlds. He’ll be assisting me with the machine.”

  “I am not your assistant,” said McCullen darkly.

  “Very well. We’re collaborating.”

  There was an uneasy moment of tension between them, and then they both looked up at her. She was still standing halfway down the stairs in her nightdress.

  “So you two will make the machine that will take Miss Sanchez home?” she said, addressing the Professor and ignoring McCullen.

  “That’s it exactly,” said the Professor, who proceeded to drag the trunk up the stairs. She backed against the railing to let him pass.

  “And Miss Sanchez is going to get here on her own?”

  “Not entirely, but she’ll come.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I have it on good authority.” He smiled and winked at her, as if sharing a joke.

  “Mr. Grey? He told you?”

  “A little birdie.”

  She wasn’t sure what he was insinuating. Had he seen Mr. Grey? The Professor rolled the trunk down the hallway, toward his laboratory.

  McCullen followed, but paused beside her. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dubois.”

  She knew McCullen. She had once broken into his house and had hidden in his conservatory, eavesdropping on him and his nefarious planning session with another man. But she knew he had never seen her.

  “A pleasure,” she said, but too coldly for either of them to mistake it for anything but the required response.

  McCullen gave a curt nod and followed the Professor up to his laboratory. She trailed behind.

  “Professor?” she said. He turned. “You are never, ever to leave me behind again. Do you understand?”

  “It was too dangerous, lass,” he said, opening the trunk and pulling out the machine within. “I didn’t want to put you in any danger.”

  “I’m grown now, and I can decide what’s too dangerous for myself.” She was being too forward, too unfeminine, but she couldn’t tell him how frightened she was, or how alone she had felt, especially not in front of McCullen.

  “As you say,” the Professor said, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention to her. McCullen knelt beside the machine, and the Professor started to explain something to him.

  Hazel turned to go.

  “Oh, and Hazel?” called the Professor. “Could you make us something to eat? I’m famished.”

  She went to her room to dress. It was not yet dawn, but she would never be able to get back to sleep. The Professor was back, accompanied by that hateful McCullen man. But if the Professor, who had been betrayed by McCullen, felt he was trustworthy, then perhaps she should exercise her Christian charity and give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps.

  She stopped by the library to take the crumpled letter from the fireplace. In the kitchen, she tossed it into the stove. Then she lit a fire. She could make eggs and there was some leftover sliced ham that she could fry with them. The Professor was back home, and though her mind was in turmoil, she held onto the hope that all would be well.

  Chapter 8

  April 17, 2032

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Neil Grey swiped his falsified badge at the identification pad at Boston Applied Robotics and once the glass panel of the turnstile slid aside, he passed through and took the elevator to the fourth floor.

  This was a floor full of offices, some in cubicles and some along the walls. He knew that Trevor Grant’s office was at the far back corner. And he knew where his shared laboratory would be, stretching along the back wall.

  The syringe sat in his
pocket, along with a slim card, like a credit card from his own time. It allowed him to purchase what he wished. He touched the syringe lightly. Today’s formula would kill the victim in four to six hours, enough time for Trevor Grant to get home, have his dinner and be dead before bedtime.

  Mr. March had told him about this man. Boston Applied Robotics was a corporation that contracted with the military. They also had a division that worked on independent projects, presumably profitable ones. A company had to weather the years when defense spending was cut and funds were scarce, and the two-pronged approach had served them well. The business was thriving.

  He thought of Rick Gallo in Las Vegas. He had palmed the syringe then, like a coin. He stopped in his tracks, and a woman walking behind him almost bumped into him. A memory was troubling him, the memory of the coin tricks he had learned as a teenager. He needed to stop and think for a minute. Turning in to an employee break room, he poured cold water into a cup and drank.

  He knew he should go to find his target, but he would only be a few minutes. Why was it that so many of his memories were so indistinct or strange? The memory of the coin trick, it was a little clearer now. The coin was a silver half dollar with John F. Kennedy’s profile on it. The trick was a simple one, but the hands—the hands. They were older than his hands, with shorter, hairier fingers and calluses. And yet, in his memory, they were his. He could feel the coolness of the coin, its worn shape and the movement from one hand to the other.

  How could this be? How could he feel the coin, see it, remember it, and yet the hands were not his own?

  A young woman was watching him while eating a cup of pink yogurt at a break table.

  “Are you new?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, and topped off his glass of water. Then he took the seat across from her, angling his chair so he was not facing her directly and would not seem threatening, even on a subconscious level.