by Jana Oliver
“Treat him like a corpse. We don’t know who’s watching. I want Copeland to think he’s dead. And don’t contact 2058 yet. We need to sort things out first.”
The junior Rover nodded. “We’ll get him settled, and then you and I will hunt down that bastard together.”
“Works for me.”
Hopkins stepped aside and instructed his men on the move. A minute or so later, they were carrying Theo down the passageway on the tarp. By then, a few of the pub’s patrons had gathered on the street.
“Did the Ripper get ’im?” someone asked, deep in his cups.
“No,” Hopkins replied, tersely. He tossed the man a coin with his free hand. “Have a pint in his honor, God rest his soul.” The rest of the gawkers followed the beneficiary back into the pub to spend his newfound wealth.
Once Theo was in place, she covered him with a blanket one of the agents had scrounged. Hopkins and the others fanned out around the wagon like it was a funeral cortege, their faces grim.
Perfect.
As the wagon began to move forward, Cynda slipped back into Angel Alley and triggered her interface. Hopkins would see to Theo, guard him with his life. It was time to dangle the bait.
Cynda barely made it back to her hotel room when her interface started buzzing. The message was from Hopkins, demanding to know where she’d gone.
She ignored it. Instead she logged onto GuvNet.
You find him? Ralph asked.
Yes. Before Ralph asked anything further, she typed, One down, one to go. Send that message to everyone with an interface, no matter the time period. You understand?
What does it mean? Ralph asked.
Don’t worry about that. Make sure all the TPB Rovers receive it.
That’s just egging them on.
I know what I’m doing. Leave my interface open to all incoming messages.
You’re acting weird. What are you up to?
Settling a score.
She was pulling on the trousers when her interface lit up. Another message from Hopkins. She blanked that one as well. We’re not ready yet, guy.
Then came the one she’d been waiting for.
Morrisey went down like a girl. I expected better.
Copeland. “I knew you couldn’t resist the bait.” She triggered the watch so it would project the keyboard on the desk.
Morrisey for Rover One. That’s the deal appeared in the air above her watch.
We’ve got TEM. You have no leverage.
There was a long pause.
Help Guv burn TPB. It’s your only chance, she offered.
A longer silence. She began to wonder if she’d lost the connection.
When and where?
“I knew you’d bite.” She gave him the instructions.
Come alone or I’m gone, was the response.
Deal. She closed the link, then began to log into GuvNet. Ralph needed to send her a few supplies, including a spare interface.
“You can’t possibly believe he’s going to turn himself in,” Mr. Spider shouted inches away from her ear.
“Ouch! Easy on the eardrums, okay? I know he’s not turning himself in. I just need to slap a time band on his wrist and he’s in ’058.”
“You have to touch him to do that.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” she replied. “He’ll want to get close.”
“Why are you so sure?”
She eyed her delusion. “I’m the reason the plot failed. As bad as he wants Defoe, he craves payback.”
“Get Hopkins in on this,” Mr. Spider warned. “You can’t do this alone.”
“I never intended to.”
Chapter 21
Like a military commander, Cynda chose familiar territory for the final battleground: Mitre Square, a poorly lit area in the City of London, surrounded mostly by warehouses. The last time she’d been here was nearly five weeks earlier, the night Kate Eddowes died. The night Cynda had actually seen the Ripper. There was still a stain where the woman’s mutilated body had rested, despite someone’s efforts to clean it away. Cynda laid a rose in the middle of the dark patch, remembering Kate’s laughter.
It was fitting that it would end here.
She popped open her watch. Eleven thirty-two. The constable on duty had just left the square on his beat and would return in about thirteen minutes. If all went well, the site would be empty on his next pass. If it went wrong, the Blue Bottle might discover a corpse or two.
Their enemy had amassed an impressively murderous resume, torturing Chris Stone, even trying to kill Hopkins, his own partner. Copeland had shot Defoe and beaten Theo nearly to death. Then just to cap his achievements, he’d tried to implement the fiery annihilation of history.
“Ambitious fellow, isn’t he?” Mr. Spider commented from his usual perch. He peered into the gloom, his multiple eyes glowing. “If I were you, I’d hang him from a web, suck his bones dry.”
“Too much work.”
“Not for me,” he boasted.
“Yeah, but he can’t see you.”
“That’s definitely an obstacle,” he admitted.
Cynda fidgeted. “Where’s Hopkins? He should be here by now.” To calm her nerves, she began her preparations. Stripping off her coat, she tossed it next to the Gladstone. The telescoping metal baton went into the back waistband of her trousers and the time band into a pocket. The spare interface was in that pocket, as well. If she was mortally wounded, Copeland would remove it so her body wouldn’t automatically forward to 2058. As long as he didn’t know about the backup interface, her plan might work.
Another check insured the e-skin patch was still attached to her left forearm. If Copeland proved true to form, she’d need that medication to counteract the effects of the Neural-blocker. She set the patch for Hopkins on top of her coat.
Mr. Spider crawled down her arm to read the information on the outside of the patch. “Did you see these side effects? Euphoria, hyperventilation, auditory and visual hallucinations. That’s just the short list,” he reported.
“None of them are as ugly as being dead,” she said, straightening up. “Hopkins? Where are you?” she grumbled. “We’re about out of time, guy.”
“Maybe he didn’t get the message,” Mr. Spider suggested.
“I sent it a half hour ago. Guv should have delivered it.”
Silence from her shoulder.
“Hopkins wouldn’t hang me out to dry,” she insisted. “He’s come through every time.”
“Hopkins did. How about Klein?”
“Don’t start with me.” She flipped open her interface and gave it a test wind. It lit up. Accessing the messages showed the one she’d sent earlier in the evening, but still no reply.
Spirals of light began to appear in the square, the visual precursor to a transfer. She looked away so they wouldn’t blind her. It had to be Copeland. She’d told Hopkins to arrive by foot.
“What are you going to do?” her delusion pressed. “Run or tough it out?”
Her mind told her to run for it. Copeland was too nasty for her to confront alone. Running away would give her and Theo a chance together.
“For how long?” she heard from her shoulder.
She saw the future with startling clarity.
“Copeland won’t quit,” she said. “He’ll come after me. He’ll go after Theo. He’ll keep killing until he finds Defoe for his masters.”
“That’s the way I see it.”
There was only one way to stop him—send him to Guv.
“It ends here.”
Cynda pressed the medication patch on her bare arm, feeling the seal break. The infusion of the neural stabilizing solution burned like wicked fire, making her grimace. She rolled down the sleeve and buttoned the cuff. Almost immediately, her heart rate sped up and her eyeballs began to feel bigger than their sockets.
She executed a particular set of windings on her interface and then buried it under the coat. If she’d gotten the sequence right, it wo
uld create an audible recording of what happened in the square. If she died, the interface would automatically forward itself to Guv before Copeland would know it existed. Though it wouldn’t save her life, his fate would be sealed.
The transfer effect began to fade. If the watchman at the Kearly and Tonge warehouse was paying attention, he’d just witnessed one helluva of a light show.
Cynda studied her enemy. In his left hand was the favored weapon of the Whitechapel killer—a double-bladed amputation knife. The blade was at least seven inches long.
“Pretty low tech,” she said.
“Fits the scene, don’t you think?” he called back, advancing toward her.
“Toss the knife away. You don’t need any more charges when you get home.”
“Who says I’m going home?”
“Me.”
He cocked his head. “You’re one ballsy bitch, I’ll give ya that.” He gestured with a free hand. “Where’s your backup?”
“He’ll be here soon.”
A shake of the head. “Don’t count on it. The message never made it. Time delayed. He’ll get it after you’re dead.”
Just trying to psyche me. Unfortunately it was working.
“Why’d you kill Chris?” she asked, buying time for the medication to work. The way things were headed, the Neural-blocker was definitely on the menu.
“I didn’t. Mimes gave him too much chloral hydrate by accident.”
“It was a mistake?” she said, her concentration rattled.
Sensing her distraction, he took a few steps closer. “Stone wouldn’t tell us where to find Defoe, so I figured if the kid fell off the radar, they’d send you.”
Chris was bait?
Copeland edged sideways, closing. “You and Defoe were the only ones who could screw up the plan. I had my orders—deliver Rover One to my employers and you go back home a corpse. Problem solved.”
“Why would the Futures work with you?” she asked, moving to the right, like a hand on a clock dial. They were about nine feet apart now. She dug out the baton, letting it open to its full length.
“I’m the guy who gets things done.” He rolled his neck and shoulders, loosening up. “I’m amazed you found Morrisey,” he said. “How many pieces was he in?”
That didn’t deserve an answer. “The Ascendant’s dead.”
“Doesn’t matter. We don’t need him anymore.”
His right hand came up. A second later, the Neuro-blocker hit her center chest.
Cynda staggered back, feeling it flare through her like a bolt of electricity. She panicked when her breath tightened. Then it eased. The medication was working. Forcing a deep inhalation, she laughed so loud it echoed in the square. Euphoria. They’d not been lying about the side effects.
Copeland gaped at her. “How the hell—” He fumbled to reset the device.
“Don’t bother. It won’t touch me.” She beckoned to him again. “Put the toy away and let’s head home.”
For a half-second, she thought he’d give it another try and there was no guarantee extra hits wouldn’t take her out. To her relief, he dropped the device into a pocket. Then he closed the distance between them, playfully lunging at her. She jumped backward, overreacting, though he’d not been that close. The medication wasn’t helping on that front.
“Work on his brain,” Mr. Spider said. “Try to distract him.”
“You’re not doing very well, Copeland. You didn’t blow up London and you can’t find Rover One. I’d say your string is running out. You’ve only got one chance.”
“Which is?”
“Come back to ’058 and testify about the Null Mem project.”
Her enemy’s face stiffened as he shifted stance. He twisted the blade in his hand, a nervous gesture. “Never heard of them.”
“Then how did you know there was more than one?” Her foe’s eyes narrowed. “How about Drogo?” she pushed.
“How’d you hear about him?”
“Chris had the name on him when he died.”
A snort. “Probably Mimes. He was always making notes. The kid probably got hold of one. I knew I should have checked his pockets.”
“Why did Davies orphan the Null Mems in the time stream?” she pressed, playing a hunch.
“What better way to hide your mistakes?”
She took another step forward, though it put her closer to the blade. In response, it tilted in her direction, a taut line of lethal steel.
“How do you know about the crazies?” Copeland demanded.
“I’m one of them now. Didn’t your puppet masters tell you that?”
His expression held, but she saw something flicker in his eyes. A hint of fear, maybe? Yes. The mercenary was afraid of her. Of what she’d become.
“That’s a lie,” he hissed. “You went into Rebound.”
“I have the mark on my temple to prove it.” She dropped her voice to a near whisper, beckoning with a forefinger like an eager lover. “Come closer, I’ll show you.”
He shifted his weight to his left foot, telegraphing his move. His right foot shot out, aiming directly for her chest. She forced her arm down, blocking the leg. Using the momentum, she tried to spin toward her opponent, to strike him in the ribs with the baton. It only brought her closer to the blade, which raked across her left cheek.
They broke apart, eyeing each other.
“The geek freak taught you some moves,” he said, grinning.
“Among other things,” she replied. The air between them began to sparkle and pulsate like a heartbeat. She blinked her eyes, but it didn’t help.
“You give me Defoe and I’ll make it easy for you,” Copeland offered.
“Did you tell Morrisey that?” she asked, wiping the blood off her face.
“Sure did. He didn’t listen.”
Copeland casually shifted the weapon to his right hand. That changed everything. As if sensing her uncertainty, he began to test her defenses. Jab, move, jab and move again. A moment later, he kicked at her, high. She turned at the last presenting less of a target. The foot clipped her arm.
She recovered, but not fast enough. Another kick, square in the shoulder. The blade moved in and scraped down the metal baton, past her hand, slicing downward. For a second she could feel nothing, then a burning slice as he scored deep into her flesh the length of her forearm.
He rammed his shoulder into her, throwing her off balance. The baton slipped from her bloody fingers, tumbling onto the bricks.
Before she could move, Copeland was between her and the weapon.
His cold laughter echoed off the buildings. “That’s better,” he said, taking random swipes at her, like an actor in a play. “Where’s Rover One?”
“Don’t know!” she said, feeling the blood dripping from her fingers and the constant throb of the wound with each heartbeat. “No one does.”
“Wrong answer.”
When he grew near, she kicked out, hard, striking him in the leg. He danced back with a slight limp.
“Good one. You’re making this fun.”
Another swipe, too close this time. She kept trying to maneuver so she could retrieve the baton, but Copeland was always in the way.
“Forget it,” her delusion urged. “Remember what Morrisey taught you.”
At the mention of his name, the ants exploded into life with a throaty yell that nearly deafened her. Cynda moved forward, positioning her hands as she’d been taught. She centered herself, pulling that fury into her soul.
“Too easy,” Copeland said. As he moved forward, seeking to press his advantage, she circled her hands. He watched her warily, trying to judge her next move.
When he lashed at her with the knife, she blocked the thrust with her left arm. Curling her right hand into her chest, she formed a fist, then shifted her weight onto her back foot.
At the last second she relaxed, drawing energy from the ground. Spiraling it into her body as she moved her weight forward, her right fist shot out, the blow smashing into his
chest at heart level. Copeland gave a choked gasp and then staggered backwards, stunned, the knife still firmly in his grasp.
“Bitch,” he wheezed. He spat. It was bright blood.
Cynda fell back on instinct. The spin kick seemed to last for a century, a perfect arc of body, mind and ferocious will. Her boot caught him square above the diaphragm. In the stillness she heard an explosive grunt, then the thick snap of ribs. The knife tumbled to the ground with a clatter.
He took one step backward, then two, his face gray. Then he folded.
Cynda kicked the knife aside, retrieved her baton, and then knelt behind him, pulling him onto his back.
Do it! the ants screamed.
Despite the torment in her left arm, she applied the baton across his throat and heaved back with all her weight. Copeland’s eyes bulged, his fingers clawing hopelessly at the metal. Feet hammered against the pavement. Time slowed. His face turned crimson, then blue-purple. There was the sharp tang of urine.
In the midst of it all, the scent of orange spice tea came to her, overpowering everything else in the square. She was in the pagoda, watching the sun rise. Theo’s resonant voice echoed around her.
In the end, only you can decide who you truly are, what you stand for, what you hold most dear. No one else has that power, Jacynda. No one.
“Ah, hell.” Cynda jerked away the baton, her hands shaking so hard it slipped to the ground. Her foe’s chest moved like a broken sail, his breathing patchy. She retrieved the Dinky Doc and checked for damage: it was significant. Crushed ribs, bruised heart. The list went on. She let the device do what it could. Cynda hunted through his pockets for his interface. She didn’t need the time band—he was too incapacitated to put up a fight. When she found the watch, she executed the windings and then secured it to his wrist. Closing his trembling fist around it, she staggered backward, dizzy.