The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  “I’m going to be working with Trevor Grant,” he said. “Do you know him?”

  “Trevor? Sure. He’s nice. You’ll like working with him.” She spooned yogurt into her mouth. It clung to her lips and she licked them.

  “I haven’t been briefed on anything yet. What projects is the team working on?”

  “Wow, you really are new. They work on implantables. I hope you have a good background in genetics.”

  That confirmed part of what Mr. March had told him. The military contracts sometimes involved modifications for soldiers, and implantable devices could be a part of that. Trevor Grant was working on a terrible invention, something that, in a decade, would lead to the death of thousands of innocent people. Mr. March had not given him the specifics.

  “Tell me about these implantables.”

  “You’ll have to ask Trevor. I’m sure he’ll brief you. We’re all very proud of his team’s work. Exciting stuff.”

  She stood and tossed her empty yogurt cup into the trash. “Well, good luck, and I’ll see you around.”

  Something was wrong about this. The way the woman had said that the research was exciting was not the way people normally spoke of weapons. Unless she had become dulled to the idea of killing people, or was convinced of the guilt of the enemy and of their well-deserved death. That was possible. Just because she seemed like a nice girl didn’t mean that she wasn’t hardened inside.

  This was a government-funded weapons facility. Neil had no moral opposition to the production of weapons, nor was he particularly bothered by them being used, if necessary, for a nation’s protection. But he trusted that when Mr. March said that the thing Trevor Grant was creating would cause the deaths of innocents, it was the truth. At least, he had thought it was the truth.

  Neil walked the rest of the way, scanning his badge to enter the long laboratory that was shared by five or six of the researchers. It was empty but for two people: a woman in her sixties and Trevor Grant, who sat at a computer.

  Neil smiled easily at both of them. “I’m from network security. We got a virus report from one of your machines.” He motioned toward the desktop computer where Mr. Grant was seated. He waited for an instant, allowing the two of them to have the impression that they could refuse him, and then he headed for the machine. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Trevor Grant got up without objection and pulled a stool up to the counter just a few feet from Neil. It would be simple to reach over and touch him with the syringe. He could pretend to reach for something on the table, or he could shake his hand after pretending to do work on the computer.

  Mr. Grant had not bothered to log out of his computer. How trusting people were sometimes. Neil looked over the open documents and then slid them to the side of the screen.

  “So, how has your work been going?” asked Neil. “Word has it that you’re on to something.”

  “It is going well,” said Trevor Grant. “And if we get the funding, we should have something to show for our efforts by the end of the year.”

  “What do you think you’ll have to show?”

  “The leg implantables are still our most popular devices. But the upper body devices are significantly more difficult, especially the hand systems. That’s where the big breakthroughs are coming.”

  How monstrous. To replace a soldier’s hands to make him a more effective killer was grotesque. It was no wonder that Mr. March wanted this man stopped. Still, he wanted to be sure. He didn’t want to have any doubts later, as he had with Rick Gallo in Las Vegas.

  After he had left Las Vegas, he asked Mr. March about it, only to receive assurances that he had removed the right man, and that additional murders had been prevented. Mr. March had waved away his concerns, applauded his devotion to acting in an ethical manner, and sent him on his way.

  Neil went through various files, reading as quickly as he could, scanning, opening documents and closing others. There were tables of data, long documents, research logs, so many research logs, some of them dating back years. It was overwhelming, and Neil understood little of what he read. There was a proposal written for upper management. Now, that could be useful. Management types typically needed things broken down into simple, easy to understand tidbits. He opened the file. The top few paragraphs gave a summary of its contents.

  It stated that Mr. Grant and his team sought an increase in their department’s funding to pay for research on implantable devices. The implantables were to help people who had lost function in their arms and hands. Some of the voluntary test subjects were elderly arthritis sufferers. They made up most of the hand implant recipients. There were others, people who had lost hand or arm function in accidents or from nerve deterioration.

  This was no military operation. He remembered that Boston Applied Robotics had two divisions. One was the private, for-profit division and one worked on military contracts. But what if the for-profit division did not exist simply to enrich the stockholders as he had assumed? What if it made something less profitable? Or something profitable but charitable as well?

  He kept reading. The proposal stated how much the devices had helped the recipients and how, with practice, they had gained a significant measure of manual dexterity, even to the point of being able to write and feel the touch of a feather on their fingertips.

  He read the alphabetical list of recipients, from Rosa Becerro all the way to Dennis Wasserman. They had all received medical implants to help them regain physical function. It listed their birthdays and occupations. These were not soldiers, forced into physical modifications to become better weapons. These were civilians, some as young as fourteen years old.

  Chapter 9

  December 26, 1863

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Seamus and Oren McCullen sat on opposite ends of the table in Seamus’s laboratory at Tulane University. Seamus typically preferred to work in his home laboratory, but since McCullen was working with him, he had decided that they were better off on neutral ground. As far as Seamus knew, the university staff was unaware of McCullen’s presence, and that was for the best.

  Once, years ago, the two of them had blown up most of the building that had housed their shared university laboratory. But that was before McCullen stole his peroxide engine. Seamus still didn’t know if he could trust him. Scratch that. He knew he couldn’t trust him. McCullen could easily give this Mr. March information about the time machine, steal plans or even kill Seamus in his sleep. But then, he could do the latter whether or not they were working together. For now, it was to both their advantages to act as allies.

  At the moment, McCullen was bent over some disassembled parts. He flipped through his notes, pulled out a page, and then wrote something down.

  “What is it?” asked McCullen without looking up. He must have felt Seamus watching him.

  “It’s nothing. I’m just hungry.”

  McCullen pulled out his pocket watch. “And no wonder. It’s supper time. Let’s get something to eat at my old club. I’m certain they’ll remember me.”

  It was as good an idea as any. Seamus didn’t want to go home, as they could still get a good amount of work done that night if they stayed late. A quick supper would be ideal.

  They took a cab to Bouchard’s, the gentlemen’s club where McCullen had once been a member. Even though he had been absent for six years, Seamus knew that within one day, McCullen had sent notes to various businesses and personal connections to try to restore his place in New Orleans society. Seamus had not asked, but he was certain that a note to his former bankers would have been among the first McCullen had written. By the end of the week, McCullen would probably have his own place to stay, money and some new mischief up his sleeve.

  At Bouchard’s, they were taken to McCullen’s favorite table. They were only just removing their coats when the host appeared.

>   “I’m so very sorry, Mr. McCullen,” he said. “There must be some misunderstanding.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your membership—it has been so long, you understand.”

  “And I will pay my dues promptly, I assure you.” McCullen held out his coat for the man to take, but the host did not oblige.

  “But that’s not the only issue. There is a small problem. If you would just come with me for a moment.”

  “We’ve come for supper,” said McCullen. “Surely this can wait.”

  “I’m afraid not. If you would only come with me.”

  The club was not crowded, but the few men present were now watching. None of them looked amused or sympathetic. If anything, Seamus thought they appeared hostile, disgusted even, as if they could see that McCullen and he were really nothing but filthy Irish refugees, playing at being a part of the upper crust.

  “Oren, why don’t we go with the man?” Seamus said.

  “I most certainly will not.” McCullen took a seat and arranged his napkin in his lap. “Now, a glass of claret, if you would.”

  The host wrung his hands and looked to Seamus, who he must imagine had more sense.

  “Let’s step into the back room,” muttered Seamus, and the host cast an anxious glance at McCullen before walking beside Seamus.

  “Now speak plainly,” said Seamus once the door was shut. “Why can’t McCullen be here?”

  “It was assumed he fled because of the problem with his engine designs.”

  McCullen, Miss Sanchez and the hexapod machine had all vanished on the night of Mardi Gras in 1857. But even before that, the engines had been dangerous, exploding now and then without warning. Without McCullen to defend his company and arrange for bribes and threats, the police had shut the company down for creating dangerous machinery. The existing engines had been confiscated, and the manufactory building had been left empty until Union soldiers took occupancy.

  “But now he’s back,” said Seamus.

  “He isn’t exactly the sort of clientele we pride ourselves upon.”

  “You mean he has no money. I’m sure he’ll remedy that soon enough.”

  “It’s not simply a financial matter,” said the host. “His name is not uttered kindly, here or elsewhere.”

  So, McCullen’s bad deeds had caught up with him at last. The townsfolk would not have known that it was McCullen who had piloted the hexapod in destroying parts of the city, but once his former company was investigated and his involvement in the explosive engines was revealed, Seamus could understand how he might be ostracized. He had been condemned in absentia, but the verdict was fair. Under other circumstances, Seamus would have been pleased.

  “I think I understand,” said Seamus.

  “Now you, sir, if you yourself wished to become a member, you would be most welcome.”

  “I’ll consider it,” said Seamus. “Could I have supper tonight with Mr. McCullen as my guest?”

  The host thought it over. “I suppose no one would have an objection to that.”

  Seamus would explain McCullen’s situation to him later, when he wouldn’t rant and fume and cause a public scene. He wondered if McCullen’s other former connections were rejecting him as well. Perhaps it would not be so simple for him to reestablish himself.

  A young woman came through the doors that led to the kitchens. It took a moment to register, but she looked like she had been crying.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she sniffed, looking up at the host. “But it’s urgent.” The girl had an Irish accent. Another immigrant girl, working to make a living.

  “Later, Noreen,” snapped the host. “I’m with a guest.”

  Bouchard’s was an all-male establishment, from the waiters to the hosts. Seamus supposed that women could work in the back, as long as they remained unseen by the male clientele. The club members came to the club to escape wives or simply to be able to discuss business or smoke in peace.

  The girl nodded and sniffed. The poor thing, her hands were as red as her nose. She must spend all day scrubbing and cooking.

  “It’s all right,” said Seamus. “What is it you need?”

  Noreen’s eyes widened when she caught his accent, and she seemed to relax. “My sister didn’t come home last night, and my father just sent word that I’m to come home right away to answer questions from the police.”

  “Didn’t come home? Well, where is she?” asked the host.

  “If we knew that, then my father wouldn’t have called the police. Like I said, she never came home.”

  “Where was she last seen?” asked Seamus.

  “She’s a maid at a hotel by the riverbank. We’re worried sick about her. What if she was snatched by someone? She’s not the only one who has gone missing.”

  “There have been others?” asked Seamus.

  She nodded and sniffed. “Some of the people who work near St. Louis Cathedral and Jackson Square.”

  “Union soldiers, having a bit of sport,” said the host darkly. “Grab a young girl, and she’s too ashamed afterwards to return home.”

  “No,” said Noreen. “It’s not just young girls. I’ve heard of two others, an older woman and a man.”

  “Near the cathedral, you said?” asked Seamus, a dark thought creeping into his mind.

  She nodded and her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know what we’ll do if we don’t find her.”

  “Where are your people from?” Seamus said gently.

  “Ballindooley.”

  “Ah, County Gallway,” said Seamus. “Good people.”

  “You know of it?”

  “I do. How long ago did you come over?”

  “Ten years ago. I was just a little girl.”

  So her family had come just at the end of the potato famine, like countless others.

  “Now, you go home to your mother and father,” he said. “And don’t worry about your work here.” He gave a hard look at the host. Noreen also looked warily at the host, but at his nod, she hurried off.

  Seamus pulled some bills from his billfold. “That’s to give the girl a week off work, you understand? With pay.”

  The host agreed and Seamus hurried out to the table where McCullen sat, looking sulky.

  “We need to go, right now,” said Seamus.

  “I refuse to leave. I am a legitimate member of this—”

  “Never mind that.” He dropped his voice. “There have been some disappearances near the river.”

  “And you think it might be because of the time rips?”

  “I do.”

  “Excellent!” McCullen shot up from his chair. “We can get some valuable readings! We’ll go immediately, as soon as we get your equipment from the laboratory.”

  “Agreed. I hope we can find out what happened to those people.”

  “Never mind them,” said McCullen, walking beside Seamus as they left the club and headed down the street. “If your method of keeping those rips closed is faulty, we’re bound to learn something that may help us with the machine.”

  Seamus was grateful that McCullen hadn’t been openly accusatory about his ability to keep the time rips closed. He felt bad enough as it was. He was so sure that he and Hazel had successfully monitored and adjusted the rips to make them safe. He had even asked September Wilde, the colleague and friend of the mysterious Neil Grey, who lived in town. She had told him that he was doing well, and that she had heard no reports of anything amiss. She had also refused to answer any questions about her involvement in the time-traveling group in which she and Neil Grey were both involved. After a few visits ending in nothing but frustration and offers of homemade baked goods, he had ceased visiting her.

  After retrieving Seamus’s sensory equipment from his labor
atory, they hired a cab and rode to the riverfront near Jackson Square. They left the larger sensors on the grass and split up to run the smaller sensors to various points around the square. They had been working for a quarter of an hour when McCullen called Seamus over.

  “It’s near here,” said McCullen. He was at the corner of Jackson Square closest to the Café du Monde, where customers ate pastries and chatted over coffee.

  “But this isn’t where the largest time rip was,” said Seamus. That location was over the river itself, and he had monitored it closely, fearing it would reopen.

  “I’m certain. Look.” McCullen showed the needles on the handheld device to Seamus, and he was forced to agree. They unpacked the larger sensor array, setting up the receptor devices in a wide arc, facing the location of the presumed unstable time rip. People from the Café du Monde studied them, but it wasn’t as if he and McCullen could come in dead of night and do this. If the rips were unstable, it had to be dealt with immediately.

  “Flip it,” said McCullen to Seamus, who flipped the power switch after checking on a final wire.

  They stood shoulder to shoulder to observe the readings on the output panel.

  “That’s it!” whispered McCullen. “Those readings aren’t from this world.”

  “Are they from yours?” Seamus had the readings from his own world, in 1863 and 1961, but these were different.

  “No way to be sure. I wouldn’t know what my world’s particular readings would look like if I saw them.”

  “These readings are fresh,” said Seamus pointing to one of the dials. “I haven’t seen readings like this in years, not since the time rips were new.”

  “It’s like scar tissue,” said McCullen. “The old rips are scarred over, not exactly healed, but if they aren’t disturbed, they won’t break open again. But this—this is a fresh wound breaking open over an old scar.”