A Time-Traveller's Best Friend: Volume One

by A Time-Traveller's Best Friend- Volume One (epub)

  “Is poisoned,” he said at last, running a finger over Marx’s freshly healed skin. “You are having a fight with a lachynlynx, yes? Big cat?”

  “Yeah,” said Kez, with deep suspicion. “How’ju know?”

  “Claw marks are familiar,” Perrin said. “Is not killing poison, only for making sick. Why is not he waking up?”

  Kez glared at him accusingly. “Thought you knew. ’S’your planet.”

  Perrin spread his hands wide. “The mysteries of Thirteenth World are not all being understood. Kez! You are not to be kicking Marx.”

  “Mind your own business,” said Kez, ruby-cheeked with fear and repressed tears. “You ain’t got nothin’ to do with the– the mysteries of Kez an’ Marx! Wake up, Marx!”

  She was still kicking Marx’ unresponsive torso when Perrin dragged her away. He sat her on the examination table with her legs dangling and ducked out the door before Kez could make up her mind whether or not to kick him too, for good measure.

  She stayed on the examination table, somehow too tired to do anything more than hunch her shoulders and glare at Marx, until Perrin came back. He was carrying a cup of something that steamed gently in coils up to the curved roof, and a tray of food that wasn’t the usual vac-pac reheat.

  “Wot you doin’?” said Kez, a curl of anger stirring.

  “Drink. Eat. Is being good for shock.”

  Kez, with great deliberation, kicked the tray out of his hands. “I. Don’t. Want. Food!”

  “Nasty child! Why is all this kicking!”

  “Shut up,” Kez said.

  “I am spanking you,” said Perrin, with conviction.

  “Shut up, Perrin,” said Kez again. “Wot’s that? Why’s it doing that?”

  The cup of steaming liquid was rolling on the floor near Marx, its contents dripping down his chest and pooling around one arm. From that arm, flowing with the liquid, was a stream of tiny phosphorant particles. Kez, watching it in fascination, saw Marx’s fingers twitch.

  “Sprinklers!” she shouted. “Activate the flamin’ sprinklers!”

  “What–” said Perrin, blinking in bewilderment under the sudden deluge of water. “Why is there being water in a flight craft?”

  “Got foam and vacuum and other stuff as well,” said Kez, jumping herself down from the examination table. “Marx says it’s– it’s safety code or summink. Look! What’s all that on him?”

  “White death,” Perrin said, his green-tinted face distinctly pale. He retreated to the door, fleeing the spreading pool of luminescent water. “Is being a flower with many pollen that stick to skin and burrow in. Is killing many of our people.”

  “Marx ain’t dead,” she told Perrin, with a blazing look.

  “No. Is being very surprising.”

  Kez, filling an instrument tray with water, snarled, but otherwise ignored him. She thought that Marx looked less stiff, and the luminous particles had all but gone from his skin, spreading in pools around him instead.

  “Right!” said Kez, and threw her tray of water in his face. Luminescence dribbled from Marx’s nose and mouth and made tear-drops in the corners of his eyes.

  Perrin said gloomily: “You are drowning him,” just as Marx sucked in a deep, noisy, water-laden breath and began to cough.

  “Thas’ it!” said Kez, fiercely joyful. She hauled at his neck and whacked him enthusiastically on the back, dislodging more of the particles. Her labours were rewarded when Marx’s hand found her face and pushed her away gently but firmly.

  “Didn’t jump in the river,” his voice said hoarsely. “Why am I wet?”

  Kez bounced on her knees. “Marx! You ain’t dead!”

  Marx groaned, and coughed a spurt of water toward the medi-pod. “What happened to the cat?”

  “I killed it. I killed it an’ you didn’t!”

  Marx muttered something that sounded like: “It probably died of fright,” and grinned his own particularly grey grin up at her.

  “I killed it,” reiterated Kez. “You just sat under a bush an’ I killed it.”

  Marx tried to push himself up, groaning. “I’ll never hear the end of it. Why am I covered in food?”

  “Perrin brought that,” said Kez maliciously, and added: “Reckon you need a clean.”

  “And why do my ribs hurt?”

  There was a brief silence before Kez said: “I’m gonna start ‘er up.”

  “Kez, why do my ribs hurt?”

  Kez edged for the door. “We don’t wanna stay here, Marx. People grab other people and stab ’em in the neck.”

  “Kez–”

  “If we start now, we can find another place to stay before Time Corp figgers out we’re here.”

  “Kez. Kez.”

  But Kez was already out the door and halfway to the cabin, light-hearted and joyous. Behind her, she heard Perrin’s voice say darkly: “This child is not needing spanking. She is needing straightjacket.”

  ***

  Friday

  In relative time, it was Tuesday. Still, thought Arabella, somewhere in the galaxy it was sure to be Friday. Even in those places where time wasn’t measured in seven-day increments, there must be a small nook of the cosmos where the feeling of Fridayness permeated the air.

  Arabella had flopped over her bed as soon as she retired to quarters, feeling hot and plump and exhausted, with just a trickle of excitement fizzing along her nerves. The chocolate cake at mess-hall was responsible for the feeling of plumpness, and Mikkel’s habit of standing just a little bit too close was undoubtedly to blame for her sense of heat. One didn’t expect one’s captain to enjoy ruffling feathers. The effort of projecting aloof calmness had exhausted Arabella to the point of certain, quiet madness, but she found that she didn’t care to speculate on the trickle of excitement that was running with Friday-like exuberance through her veins.

  Instead, she allowed herself the indulgence of a hot, scented bath and then curled up on her couch, clean and still damp behind the ears. Her pocket reader was full of books that had been put there long ago but not read, and with the leisurely feeling of Friday tickling through her veins, Arabella snuggled into the cushions and started the first one.

  The chocolate box was more than half full, and a cup of aromatic tea so pleasantly offset the sweetness of the chocolates that it wasn’t until Arabella reached for another chocolate and couldn’t find it that she realised she eaten the whole lot. That meant an hour longer in the ship’s gym, she thought ruefully. She solaced herself by making another cup of tea, which was barely on its way to her lips when the text of her book disappeared from the reader’s glossy surface. In its place three sentences appeared, slightly off-centre.

  They said: Battle-stations, Bells. Get dressed. You have ten minutes.

  “Oh heck!” said Arabella. She kicked the blanket off, sending the chocolate box tumbling to the floor, and dashed for her shallow closet. Her employers were mysterious, sometimes annoying and almost always inconvenient, but they were never tardy. Whatever was about to happen would require her presence, and would happen in exactly ten minutes whether or not she was ready for it. Arabella preferred to be fully clothed when that moment arrived.

  Her uniform for tomorrow was correctly creased and hanging to the left in her closet: Arabella pulled it on, leaving her civvies to puddle on the floor in a reprehensible manner, and quickly rolled her hair into a bun that wouldn’t push her cap askew. Time Corp was rigidly strict when it came to caps, and woe betide the Ordinary or Ensign whose cap was off-centre, battered, or—inexcusable sin!—lost. After growing up in the tuck-shop of one of the rowdier barracks of WAOF’s Fourth World orbiting base station, Arabella had found it surprisingly easy to slip into the role of Ensign. The fact that her commission was a spurious one didn’t trouble her at all, nor did the fact that her employers almost certainly didn’t have Time Corp or World Alliance Order Force’s best interests in mind.

  Well, thought Arabella fair-mindedly, straightening her cap in the mirror, I don’t really ca
re much for their best interests myself.

  Arabella was reaching for the door lock when it hissed open by itself. Mikkel, who was striding through, came to an abrupt halt at the sight of her, his eyes narrowing.

  “How did you know?”

  “Strictly speaking, sir, I don’t know anything,” said Arabella. “If I had to guess I’d say that a pattern’s emerged and that we’re after Kez and Marx again.”

  Mikkel’s blue eyes were on her with rather too much sharpness to them. “Very perspicacious of you, ensign. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you’ve managed not to answer my question, by the way. If we weren’t both needed on the bridge you and I would be having a little conversation that might help you to remember that in future.”

  Arabella met the blue gaze, flicked her own past it, and said: “Yes sir. Should we be going, sir?”

  “You tell me, ensign,” said Mikkel, though he was already walking through the door again. “You seem to know more about what’s going on than I do.”

  “Lucky guess, sir,” said Arabella pleasantly, matching her stride with his. It wasn’t easy to do, since Arabella’s legs were as distressingly short as the rest of her, but she had the impression that Mikkel was also matching his stride with hers, and was grateful that she wasn’t forced to trot.

  “May I ask why I’m needed for a situation involving Kez and Marx?”

  Mikkel’s eyes flicked down at her and away again almost too quickly for Arabella to be sure that it had really happened. “Time Corp put me on this assignment because my time-line consistently interacts with theirs. I’m pulling you in because yours does the same. Let’s just say that I think you’ll come in handy.”

  “I’m glad you think so, sir.”

  “Besides,” said Mikkel, his mouth twisting in a reminiscent smile: “You’re the only person I’ve ever heard of beating Marx in a fair fight.”

  “What about the unfair ones?”

  “Oh, he always wins those. He’s the one who cheats.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Arabella fervently. She followed Mikkel into the bridge, where Commodore Cook was already on the hailer, much to the stiff unease of the assembled bridge crew. Their salutes when Mikkel entered held an air of relief. Arabella was amused to see that the younger female officers, who would usually have sent smouldering looks in her direction, were so busy trying to look busy that they had no time to give in to the baser of their jealous urges. The nice little gunnery officer who sat next to Arabella still gave her his usual sweet smile when she slid in beside him, but it was a furtive one.

  “Good evening, Captains,” said the Commodore’s voice. His gaze was unfocused, but it wasn’t until he uttered the plural that Arabella realised he was talking to the occupants of more than one bridge. “As your personal messengers should have told you, we’ve caught Marx’s trail again. The whole of the Lower Fleet is to break orbit immediately and convene on Eighth World. We understand that Marx and Kez intend on stealing a certain item from an evidence locker, the location and description of which will be sent to your personal messengers as soon as you arrive at Eighth World orbit. That’s all.”

  There was a buzz immediately following the disappearance of the Commodore’s face, through which Mikkel’s voice cut, saying quite calmly: “When you’re ready, Commander. Take us into formation.”

  Mikkel was studying his personal messenger, his brows raised, and Arabella was trying very hard not to peep around his arm. When she found herself on tiptoes she made a conscious effort to step back, and went to look out the window of the carrier. The T.C.S. Slider was in orbit somewhere high above and far behind, and Eighth World was spread below, grey and blue in patches.

  When the humming of the carrier became obnoxious, Arabella asked: “Are all the Captains shipping down to the surface, sir?”

  “No, ensign,” said Mikkel, stowing his personal messenger. “We’re just special. The Commodore has given us access to any area in the Grid: our job is to track down and capture Marx and Kez before they break into the locker.”

  “His exact words, sir?”

  “His exact words,” Mikkel nodded. He joined her by the window, propping his shoulders against the maxi-plex and nudging himself just a little too close, as usual. “Why do you ask?”

  “Time Corp’s called out the entire Lower Fleet,” she said, tapping fingers against the window. “And if I’m not mistaken, those are WAOF craft on the surface: want to bet they have troops on the ground as well? Not to mention Eighth World’s regular Guard. Something about this feels off.”

  Mikkel gazed at the ceiling of the carrier. “Something’s always just a little bit off with Time Corp, ensign. The thing is to stay ahead of the crazy and behind the designated line.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “I wonder how the pair of them are going to slip past this lot?”

  “You think they’ll do it?”

  “Oh yes,” said Mikkel, smiling down at her. “If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that Marx will be here today. The Core is still in flux as to whether they get away with or without the evidence, but I’m betting they’ll get away with it.”

  Arabella shifted her weight, pulling away from him imperceptibly. “It’s almost as if they have inside information.”

  “Like access and a Core Password?” said Mikkel agreeably, shifting his weight to close the gap again.

  There was a very full silence, during which Arabella tried and failed to meet his blue gaze.

  Eventually, she said: “You mean, if that were possible, sir?”

  “If that were possible. Of course. Take a seat, ensign; we’re about to land.”

  The landing dock was teeming with activity when Arabella followed Mikkel down the gangway. Lower Fleet’s carriers were arriving all around them, Time Corp blue mingling with WAOF grey, and if Arabella didn’t know better, she would have thought that the entirety of the Time Corp was landing.

  “It’s a bit of a mess,” said Mikkel, as if reading her thoughts. She thought he looked vaguely disdainful. “No, don’t stand there, ensign, you’ll get run over by a WAOFy.”

  He swung Arabella away from the oncoming rush by her elbows, and the panoply of blue and grey whirled in her startled gaze. Through the blur, two faces stood out like a beacon: a stubbled, hard-eyed one topped by a blue Time Corp cap, and a small, sharp one that was attached to a child in powder-monkey kit.

  A breath hissed through Arabella’s teeth and Mikkel immediately released her.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  Arabella laughed before she could help it.

  “No, then,” said Mikkel, his grin self-mocking. His eyes ran over the crowd around them, sparking a surge of unease in Arabella. Kez and Marx were still filtering through the crowd, following the general flow, and if Mikkel’s head turned much further, he couldn’t escape seeing them.

  For a moment she paused, irresolute. But her directive was to aid and abet Marx and Kez as much as it was to protect and serve Mikkel, and Arabella didn’t fancy telling her employers that she’d failed due to a squeamish stomach. She needed a distraction, now. Arabella grimaced, a quick, wry twist of the mouth, then grabbed Mikkel’s face and kissed him.

  Arabella wasn’t quite sure what she expected. What she didn’t expect was for Mikkel to wrap his arms around her without a second’s hesitation and proceed to kiss her back with considerable enthusiasm. Unnerved, she almost forgot to follow Marx and Kez’s progression across the dock, and caught a glimpse of them disappearing into the Grid just as Mikkel drew back enough to allow her to break the kiss.

  His voice said in her ear, a little unsteadily: “You just missed ’em. They went into the Grid.”

  “Oh,” said Arabella, blinking. Then: “Oh! Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen them?”

  “I’m still not exactly sure whose side you’re on,” said Mikkel. “Besides, I think your way is more enjoyable. Why did you stop?”

  “At least I know which side I’m on,” retorted
Arabella. “You seem to be having difficulties with that. Sir.”

  “Oh, do you want me to raise the alarm?”

  “No, sir. Er, your arms are still around my waist, sir.”

  Mikkel looked down at her, lips curving, and Arabella knew with a flash of mingled dismay and anticipation that he was about to kiss her again.

  The welcome sound of a parade whistle rent the air.

  “Oh, look, there’s the Commodore,” she said, neatly twitching herself out of the danger zone.

  Mikkel said something distinctly derogatory beneath his breath but came to attention with the rest of the landing dock. Battlestations, thought Arabella; and the tingle of anticipation grew.

  Under Commodore Cook’s terse instructions, order slowly but surely began to form from the chaos. Arabella watched as Time Corp’s Lower Fleet marched into the Grid, cross-hatching the tide of grey WAOFys that surged out into the uncovered areas. Here and there she saw an Eighth World Guard, but they were hard to pinpoint amidst the grey.

  “Divide and conquer?” she wondered aloud.

  Mikkel glanced down at her. “They’re afraid we’ll fight: WAOF doesn’t play well with Time Corp. They think we’re above ourselves, and we think they’re a set of time-bound crawlers.”

  “I can’t imagine why they think you’re above yourselves.”

  “Sheer jealousy,” said Mikkel, eyes glinting.

  Arabella, already repenting her mischievous urge, refused to respond to the smile in his eyes. She cleared her throat and said in a business-like manner: “What exactly are Marx and Kez planning on stealing from the locker, sir?”

  “A box, if the Core is right.”

  “A box of what?”

  “Nothing. Just a decorative box that was evidence in a home invasion. It was a closed case; solved years ago.”

  “Yes, sir: but what home invasion? And where? That’s what I mean about things being off. Nothing quite fits where it should. For example, did anyone bother to find out why Marx wants this box before throwing us at Eighth World like a handful of grenades?”

  “One of the Core monkeys would’ve investigated,” said Mikkel. “Motive’s half the job, after all.”