by SJ Davis
“Yes,” said Nico in a stark monotone that contrasted with his physical agitation. He reached in and out of his trousers pockets over and over again, either unable to find what he was looking for or unable to find a satisfactory place for his hands. His left boot kicked stone floor and he scuffed his heels back and forth. “We formed a small insurgent group to end Omni. We want to be free from their feed.” He finally shoved his hands in his jacket pockets where they remained. “The feed controls us. All of us.”
Nico was dressed strangely in a tight black jacket, made of shiny leather and cut short at the waist. Underneath he wore a white undershirt, with no proper shirt on top along with tightly fitted trousers. He had strange hair, blonde and twisted in strands that hung to his shoulders.
“How do you think I can help you?" she asked.
“Professor Anson.” Nico glared back. Despite his cold eyes, a hint of a friendly dimple emerged when he spoke.
“Professor Anson?” Caroline gasped. “You think I can help you with Anson? No one can help you with Anson. He has guards!” Caroline’s voiced grew hushed, “Mechanical ones, automatons, indestructible.” She glanced over Yeshua’s shoulders; Minnow was tapping away on her device.
“We’ll deal with the guards.”
“Impossible!” Caroline stood from the pew. “You want to get rid of Anson? And you think I will help you?”
“No,” said Yeshua. “We don’t want to kill him. We want to change one small event. And that should make all the difference to us.”
“Pay attention to me carefully,” Nico whispered into her ear, his blonde dreadlocked hair hung to his shoulders. “We know everything that happens here, because it has already happened, it is history to us. I know that you’re afraid of seeming the spoiled and frivolous daughter of a well-loved Prime Minister, an unimportant woman forgotten by time. This is your chance to be different from every other upper class young lady who stitches doilies day after day, supervising house staff.”
“This is mad,” said Caroline.
“This is for you,” said Nico, holding out her mother’s cameo to her. “You told us to give this to you when we came, that this was your mother’s. You found us at Omni Headquarters and made it possible for us to escape. We believed you, you also said that you would believe us.”
“You could have stolen this when you left the note.” Yet Caroline knew that was impossible. Her mother’s cameo was an heirloom and was locked away. Only Caroline and the Prime Minister could access it.
“Yes, I guess we could have. But we didn’t, because you said you would know.”
“Listen,” said Minnow, stepping into Caroline’s pew. “Let’s stop wasting time. I’ll break it down for you. We’re fighting against a vast computer-driven grid that controls and stores every facet of our lives.” Minnow’s masculine bluntness and aggressive physical agility startled Caroline. “A place where a bar-coded chip is jammed into your head, storing your personal information: what you buy, what you read, your intelligence, and your health records.” Minnow sat for a moment as she glanced at Caroline’s complicated layers of petticoats and bustles, both intrigued and repulsed. Caroline clutched her mother’s cameo in her palm. Its presence in her hand calmed her.
“We are nothing but a series of dots and slashes,” added Nico. “Information mined and harvested.”
Caroline looked to the side. “I don’t understand. How can you change this?”
“Damn it.” Minnow’s hand held tablet beeped, she tapped on it again. “Fifteen minutes,” said Minnow. She gestured to Yeshua and Nico to leave the church, twisting the ends of her short hair with one hand, and tapping her geo-positioning device with the other.
“Look,” said Yeshua, frustrated and speaking rapidly as Caroline followed them out of the church. “It starts with his analog, the Tabulator. His analog evolves into Punch Cards, then Magnetic Strips, then Barcodes and later Smart Devices. All convenient technological methods, but personal information is captured and mined from these devices. Information is power. Information is money. Whoever controls the information, controls everything.”
“I don’t follow. Might I suggest you fight your battle in your own time? Our scientific advances have proven beneficial to our society.”
“Your ‘society’ has severe pollution. Your factories use child labor. Your women have no political voice,” added Nico, breathing in the embedded spicy smell of lingering incense.
Yeshua shot Nico a keep-quiet look. “We aren’t advocating a halt to discovery and invention, Caroline. We aren’t Luddites. Industry and Invention should aid man, not destroy him.”
“Is everyone attached to this feed? Can you avoid it?” Caroline asked.
“Everyone of perceived value is on the grid. Drug addicts, criminals and the mentally ill are kicked off because their informatic structure isn’t valuable. They aren’t desirable consumers. So with a single touch on a screen, they are rejected, sent to the deregulated zone. And they may as well be dead.”
“You are already too late. The Tabulator already exists. It computes scads of dull information and mathematical tables and looks like a flattened copper typewriter with a square screen. Strands of yellow, red, and blue wires hang off the sides and attach it to a metal box. I’ve seen it at my father’s residence.”
“We know it exists, but you are missing the point. We don’t want to obliterate the Tabulator; we also don’t want to harm Anson. Simply this, if the Tabulator is gone during a specific time, Professor Anson will have to cancel his meeting with an investor, an American named Charles Watson. Anson and Watson form Omni, the agency that evolves into this massive Industrial Complex, based on the control of human behavior. It is their meeting we need to prevent.”
“Exactly,” said Minnow. “They don’t meet, they don’t make Omni. Okay? Now we gotta run.”
“How will you know if you are successful? This could all be a circular loop. Constantly repeating.”
“We’re betting that time is flux and unstable,” said Minnow. “We’re also hoping we beat Omni to the punch.”
“But why me?” Caroline called after them. “Because my father is Prime Minister?”
“No,” Minnow called back as they left her. “Because you have friends that will help you. You would never do this alone,” she challenged.
“What friends?” said Caroline, toying with her hat and fumbling with its positioning.
“You’ll find them. They’ll find you. Everything is already in place.”
May 18th 1865
Josephine walked to the window. “I don’t know why Caroline invited us into this mess of unpleasantness. It borders on criminal activity.”
“Meet with her, that’s all. We’ll evaluate the situation after we have more information,” said Bodhi.
“If I agree to this caper, what if, at the first sign of trouble, she runs to her father and we are the ones left hanging with a stolen machine? We’d be felons.”
“Why would she would do such a thing?” asked Bodhi.
“Oh Bodhi,” she sighed. “Are you testing my patience or are you that naïve? Don’t you remember when we were children? Always running to her father and blaming everyone else?”
“Ten years have passed since then, a lifetime.”
“I cannot fathom how she intends to ‘borrow’ Anson’s machine.” She crossed her arms and sat on the chintz sofa that faced away from Bodhi. “And ‘borrowing’ is a generous euphemism.”
Bodhi sat down next to her and grabbed her hand. “Josephine, I understand you have questions. I do too. And the questions are worth asking. We may even get some answers about your mother and father.”
“If the London police never had answers, I fail to see how Caroline will have any. Also, I don’t understand her motives. This plan could all be a lark for her.”
“Josephine, she has the necessary connections.”
“We go back to her father, the Prime Minister, do we? Do you think he would rescue you and me? Absolutely no
t. But Caroline? She has much less to lose.”
“Professor Anson is a known guest at Lord Ratcliffe’s house. And Caroline is the chrononauts’ point of contact.”
“Do you really believe her story of the chrononauts?” asked Josephine. “She could be making the whole thing up. Or worse, she could inadvertently be encouraging lunatics.”
Bodhi picked up his pocket watch. “I can’t imagine her inventing this chrononaut story.” He smoothed his hair back and straightened the crease in his trousers. “The concept of time is merely a human construct. I don’t rule out the possibility of skipping through time and space as we know it.”
“From a practical angle, if it were possible, would we not be seeing more chrononauts traveling about, popping in and out of time?’”
“I don’t know. Perhaps they are here, but are careful not to disturb anything,” said Bodhi. “Think for a moment. The concept of moving between different points in time is analogous to moving between different points in space. Perhaps we can send objects or, more simply information, backwards in time to a point before the present, without experiencing the intervening period. Maybe time can be dilated.”
Josephine eyes brightened, “Too many possible paradoxes, Bodhi. Fundamental laws of nature prevent time travel. If one travels back in time, history would diverge from the traveler’s original history at the very moment the traveler arrived in the past.”
“Your argument is philosophically based, not physically based. Perhaps parallel histories exist. Or perhaps the past observed from the present is deterministic. Maybe the present only has one possible state.” Bodhi rubbed his temples and sat down behind a broad mahogany desk littered with files and papers. Behind him hung framed engravings of reptile taxonomies. “Or perhaps the present, observed from the past, has many possible states until our actions cause it to collapse into one state.”
“Do you think our actions are inevitable?” asked Josephine.
“No. Maybe. Perhaps anything a time traveler does in the past must be a part of history all along. Perhaps the time traveler can never do anything to prevent the trip back in time from being made.”
“Sounds very deterministic, Bodhi. The notion of free will conflicts with your theory, if our actions are indeed determined by history.”
The maid interrupted the debate, entering without knocking. “Afternoon, Miss Rolls. Lady Ratcliffe and one of her, um, associates have arrived. Shall I show them in?”
“Yes, Kate. Just give us a moment, bring them in, and we’ll have some tea.”
“Thank you, Kate,” added Bodhi, always appreciative.
Josephine looked out the balcony window and saw that Caroline’s zeppelin had landed on the open grounds near the house. Josephine grimaced at the blue and red striped airship with shiny bronze fins and undercarriage. “Oh dear, I can’t imagine the attention her zeppelin must be attracting. We need to be discreet. And that,” she tapped the window with her finger, “is not discreet. Do you think she actually brought a chrononaut?”
She turned around to see Bodhi had already left the room.
Josephine discovered Bodhi, already in the foyer greeting Caroline. Caroline wore a tight black corset made of shiny silk and lace with a full violet skirt. Layers of ruffles and tucks decorated the back. A small purple hat decorated with miniature dangling octopi balanced atop her head. She was smiling at Bodhi as she removed her long black leather gloves, handing them absentmindedly to Josephine. Josephine sighed and gazed down at the expensive gloves; Caroline’s confident beauty filled the foyer, even the fresh garden flowers diminished in comparison.
“Hello all! I do have some interesting news,” said Caroline, leading the way into the living room as if she were the rightful owner. The room was a small comfortable area and had been one of the few rooms to survive the blast. The ceiling was vaulted and the walls were decorated with dark red draping. Clocks of all shapes and sizes adorned the walls. Two scarlet wingback chairs sat on each side of a small fireplace, facing a leather settee; the adjacent wall housed a large circular window with a view of the garden. Floor to ceiling bookshelves occupied the remaining two walls.
Caroline stood next to the fireplace to warm herself. “Professor Anson is planning to unveil his Tabulator to a group of international businessmen. It is true that a wealthy American is interested in his machine.” Caroline puffed with pride. “Current plans are to discuss the financial aspects away from London. I believe the location to be High Wycombe, but I have not been able to find out the date.”
Bodhi walked towards Josephine and squeezed her elbow. Bodhi and Caroline looked back into the foyer for the additional guest. “Kate mentioned an associate. Did you bring a chrononaut, Caroline?”
“Yes.” She shifted uneasily, looking over Josephine’s shoulder. “I brought Yeshua.”
“Where is he?” asked Josephine peering through the doorframe, seeing nobody.
“Behind you,” whispered a voice, as Josephine jumped.
“Nice to meet you,” said Bodhi as he turned to shake Yeshua’s hand. “Let’s all sit, shall we?” he suggested to the group.
“We know that two nights a week, Anson’s personal guard, Henry, is away,” said Yeshua, taking a seat on the settee across from the fire. “On Tuesday and Thursday nights he visits a particular business. He goes to a upscale brothel run by a woman named Madame Francesca.” Bodhi blinked several times and cleared his throat.
“Evidently he has certain perversions and proclivities,” said Caroline.
“Oh my,” said Josephine. A glint of light from a piece of broken glass caught her eye. “Why are we interested in Anson’s guard and his prostitutes?”
“Henry is the closest to Anson and we can get information from him. About security, meetings, anything we can find out could be useful,” said Yeshua.
“All right, let’s follow him to Francesca’s, Henry will certainly be in a most vulnerable position,” said Bodhi.
“First we’ll need to visit Madam Francesca. I am certain she will require payment for her discretion,” said Caroline.
“Can we trust a prostitute to be discreet and trustworthy?” asked Josephine.
“Yes,” insisted Bodhi. “She may be the only one we can trust.”
Three sets of shocked eyes turned to Bodhi.
London
May 22nd 1865
Madam Francesca led Henry into a windowless room in the basement. “Perfect,” Henry said as he looked about the room, a dank dungeon in the bowels of her home. “A lovely and quiet chamber.”
“You are a loyal client, Henry,” Francesca said quickly. “I always do my best to accommodate you.” Her small smile barely covered her coldness.
“This exceeds every expectation, Francesca.” Henry’s eyes glowed with excitement, even in the dim light of the room. “I’m impressed with your remarkable creativity.”
Chained rings swung down from the ceiling for hanging women by the wrists. Ladders and straps peeked from an open linen closet. A dirty stretcher with adjustable fasteners leaned against the wall. Birch branches and wired cat o’ nine tails sat on a table, instruments of flagellation.
A quiet knock interrupted the silence. A young girl with waist length auburn hair swept into the room wearing a bright green Japanese silk wrap embroidered with golden dragonflies. The diagonal cut showed off her limited cleavage but emphasized her full hips; Henry could see her pulse beating in her neck.
“Very nice, Francesca,” said Henry, almost salivating.
“This is Violet. You are her first visitor.”
Francesca was still an attractive woman thought Henry as he watched her walk out of the dank room. “And Henry,” she turned to add, “Violet is from a nice family. Don’t be overly difficult with her.”
“I will do my best to leave no marks, Francesca.” Her warning put Henry in a heightened state of arousal. “But the girl has quite fair skin.” He reached over to the table of riding crops, picking up a small delicate straw colored one.<
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“Perhaps I should stay to supervise,” said Francesca, leaning against the doorframe. “You could even join us, Francesca.”
“I am retired, Henry. But thank you.” Her hand went up to the faded purple scar on her cheek, an old deep cut, and the origins of which she kept anonymous. “Just keep in mind, she is completely unblemished,” Francesca looked at Henry. “Keep her that way.”
The moans and cries emanating from the upper rooms added to Henry’s desire. If only Violet showed more fear, he thought, she would be utterly perfect.
He spat a toothpick from his mouth onto the floor and walked over to her. Mildew painted the damp corners of the room and the dank smell of sweat hung in the air. As Henry closed in on Violet, he inhaled deeply and twisted her hair in his hand.
Violet eyed Henry; his greasy and flattened features repulsed her. He reminded her of the Romanesque stone gargoyles hanging outside the old Cathedrals. He let go of her as he ran to paw at Francesca’s corset when she exited the room, pawing at her like a spoiled child. Francesca pushed him off with a fleeting shove.
“I would slap you, but I know you’d enjoy it,” Francesca said, smoothing her hair as she disappeared into the poorly lit hallway. The sound of dripping water radiated through the room from an unknown source.
As the door closed, Violet gestured to the side table, offering Henry a drink. Nodding, he smiled at her through his stained teeth, displaying a gap between his top front teeth large enough to add another.
“Is that gin, my sweet Violet?”
“Indeed,” she answered.
“Come closer, pour the drink in my mouth.”
She had placed a white lace mask over her eyes, as instructed earlier by Francesca, when she brought him the gin. She lifted the glass to his lips while he squeezed the base of her throat with a rough hand.
She pushed the glass into his mouth, dumping the gin quickly down his throat. Her face tightened in revulsion as she retreated from him.
“Watch it, girl,” warned Henry. “Go slowly.” His wet lips curled over his teeth. “I will excuse your clumsiness since you are a novitiate.” His eyes were bloodshot. “But I will speak to Francesca about your training.”