Code Redhead - A Serial Novel

by Sharon Kleve

  Certainly the red hairs couldn’t be hers. One of Caroline’s better features was her mane of soft, honey-colored hair.

  “What do you think?” Stephen asked her.

  “It’s intriguing. Someone’s managed not only to get in and out of here undetected, but to actually operate the machine—a procedure with which only we three are familiar.”

  Stephen nodded. The time machine had in essence been constructed as a huge clock with a transfer chamber at its heart. He’d sat inside it once or twice with the gears, springs and other clockwork rising around him, and felt the tension of time fully wound and suspended.

  He looked at his uncle. “Tell me again how you first noticed it had been used.” Maybe a clue, other than those bright hairs, would jump out at him.

  “I’d left the unit fully wound because I wanted to discover how long it would hold tension. It should require days—weeks—for the mainspring to slacken. Yet when I returned the next morning the spring had completely run down.”

  “But it remained in the same position here on the floor?”

  Anthony scowled. “Nearly the same position. If you look closely you can see skid marks where the feet have scuffed the floor.”

  “It moved,” Caroline breathed.

  “It moved,” Stephen repeated. “And it always happens at night?”

  “Yes. Following the first incident I did not leave the unit fully wound. But someone did wind it—and left the key in place.”

  “Extraordinary.”

  “Each time since, the key has been left in the winder.”

  “And the locks on the doors?”

  “All remained securely locked as I left them.”

  Stephen and Caroline exchanged glances.

  “And you say,” Stephen pressed, “this has happened an unknown number of times?”

  “I cannot doubt it. Each time I inspected the machine closely. All the red hairs were found clinging to the back of the seat. Other things I found are assorted threads, grass and mud.”

  A thrill chased its way up Stephen’s spine. “It’s been outdoors.”

  “Yes and I never engaged it. This machine was assembled here and should not have been anywhere near grass.” Anthony shot Stephen a rueful glance. “In truth Nephew, I thought to ask you to pilot its maiden voyage—if voyage it can be called, time being a medium unto itself.”

  “Voyage will have to do, Uncle.” Stephen did not pretend to completely understand the workings of this, Anthony’s greatest invention. He did know that the machine operated by slipping between the vibrations of time, being a tick behind or advanced of them. But only a tick—any more than that and neither the unit nor its occupant would survive intact.

  “At least this proves one thing, Master Gregory,” Caroline commented. “The time machine works.”

  “I suppose there is that, Caroline.” Anthony did not appear as elated as he should. “But there exists the very real chance I shall walk in here some morning and find nothing but an empty space where the unit should stand. And our miscreant may well lose her life.”

  “So what’s to do? Chain it to the floor?”

  “I trust you are being facetious, Nephew, for anyone intelligent enough to operate this machine would have the sense to employ a pair of iron-cutters.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  Anthony focused on Stephen again. “I’m glad you asked. I thought to employ stealth, along with a most valuable resource.”

  Stephen lifted his eyebrows. “Which would be?”

  “You, Nephew.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Moonlight slanted across the floor of the large workroom, throwing the time machine into stark relief. A fanciful structure, Stephen thought from his hiding place on the floor behind one of the workbenches. Seen from this angle, the gears rose and meshed like some machination of the gods and cast still more fanciful shadows.

  How much time had passed since Anthony and Caroline departed for home, carefully locking up and leaving Stephen secreted here as watchman? Must be hours. At first he’d been fired up by excitement at the possibility of a chase. But that had long waned into boredom which now—sometime after midnight—tapered into an overwhelming desire to sleep.

  Not that the floor of the workshop felt comfortable—far from it. The hardwood boards needed dusting and Stephen had noticed a few mouse droppings before he lost the light. Now though, not so much as a spider stirred.

  Perhaps nothing would happen this night. The miscreant might not appear, which meant Stephen might well have to spend many nights thus on his uncle’s behalf.

  He stifled a groan and tried to straighten his legs from their cramped position, which almost made him miss the scrape of wood against wood from across the room. Instinct held the breath in his lungs and froze him where he lay.

  What was that?

  Carefully, he sat up and peered over the top of the workbench. A glitter of moonlight told him a window across the way tilted in. Not one of the large, floor-to-ceiling windows that fronted the street, this one opened onto the wing of roof that led up to the chimneys. And barely large enough to admit a child.

  Stephen saw her feet appear first, then the tangled hem of her skirt. He watched—still without breathing—as a pair of slim hips and a slender waist wiggled through followed by shoulders and…

  Even in the moonlight her hair gleamed red, a wild riot of curls spilling down her back, branding her as culpable.

  After one look around the workroom, she headed straight for the time machine. Of course she’d done this before without interference and would expect none now.

  Stephen would see about that.

  Had Uncle Anthony left the machine fully wound? Stephen thought so and he cursed that fact now. If the thief reached the machine before he did, she just might get away.

  He sprang to his feet behind the workbench. “Stop where you are!”

  ****

  Bridgetta Maguire froze when the command boomed across the silent space and her heart leaped straight into her throat. Damn it! Consternation flooded her and turned her stomach. All these nights she’d been coming here achieving the impossible without a misstep. This would teach her to be overeager and attempt to appropriate the machine in bright moonlight.

  Indeed, the moon’s radiance illuminated the space all too well and allowed her a fairly good look at the man who’d risen from behind the bench across the way.

  Tall and powerfully built, he possessed strength in his broad shoulders and youthful vitality in his voice. Bridgetta calculated the distances between each of them and the time machine. Could she reach it before he did and make it away?

  A close thing and no mistake. He had only to go over the workbench and cross a space of some twenty paces. She…

  She would have to leap down from this window ledge, run like an antelope, throw herself into the unit and pray it was fully wound.

  Desperation came like a flush of heat. She absolutely had to go back, and it must be tonight.

  Upon that thought, she launched from the ledge with a wild cry. Always surprise the enemy if possible.

  Let it be wound. Let it be wound.

  The words became her litany as she pounded across the floor. Other steps pounded also in time with hers and the man grew steadily larger. He had indeed gone over the workbench. Now he ran straight for Bridgetta, doubled over in an incipient tackle, intent as a charging bull.

  She reached the unit first and insinuated herself between the gears. She had no idea who he was—a hired guard perhaps. But thank God she’d done this before and knew the procedure.

  Let it be fully wound!

  She hit the buttons in the order she had the first time—green because it seemed the signal for “go” and then the queerly-checkered button. The unit fired up with a whine and the huge gears began to turn.

  Oh hell—he was going to reach her after all!

  The needle clicked over and showed the unit fully wound. Thank you.

  Whining filled B
ridgetta’s ears and the air around the unit began to flicker in what she’d come to equate with a visual tick-tock. A curious sensation built—fierce trembling in discordance with the smooth path of time. Bridgetta knew she had only seconds. Would it be long enough?

  A pair of hands appeared, closed tight on the edge of the enclosure where she sat. On a surge of panic she beat at them to no avail. Instead of letting go, the man hauled himself in. Suddenly his full bulk tumbled upon her, crowding the small space impossibly.

  She couldn’t even see him for the flickering that now filled her eyes.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick—

  It always happened between the ticks, the moment of what she’d come to call slippage, when transference occurred. It happened without physical sensation—time being a thing of perception rather than a physical commodity—but with such powerful disorientation Bridgetta invariably lost track of her senses, of not only where but who she was.

  This time she huddled half smothered beneath another person. True, she’d learned for a fact the unit could transport two or even three, but most her passengers had been far smaller than her present companion.

  And then the machine stopped abruptly—not in space but in time. Reality rushed in.

  Instinctively, Bridgetta had squeezed her eyes shut; she pried them open to see the now familiar yard. Brick walls surrounded the place on three sides. Exit on the last side was blocked by the ruins of a brick building, now crumbled. Dawn just slithered over the eastern horizon allowing Bridgetta to see her surroundings—and her companion.

  He lay unconscious in the bottom of the compartment. Fortunately for him he’d been able to pull his feet in at the last instant. Bridgetta had no idea what happened to body parts—or anything else—left dangling over the edge.

  Lost? Ripped apart by time?

  But he still possessed both boots and presumably the feet inside. She shoved him over in the limited space and got her first good look at his countenance.

  Her heart gave a little unexpected flutter in her chest. Not a handsome face as such—certainly no pretty boy—but the kind that appealed to her most with a broad forehead, well-defined cheekbones and a nose that made a statement. Thick brown hair tumbled in a thatch over his brow and a scrape on one cheek still oozed blood. Since his eyes remained closed she couldn’t guess at their color.

  Well-cut, decent clothes gave away little. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, about her age.

  Oh God, what to do? She absolutely must go about her business. She could tie him up and leave him with the machine but she had no rope—not so much as a belt handy. One thing she knew for certain—she could allow for no excuses. But dared she leave him to awaken alone in the Warsaw ghetto?

  ****

  “Wake up!” A hard slap against Stephen’s cheek accompanied the words in staccato. He opened his eyes to see a halo of copper-red, backed by the sun, and the pieces of reality swam back into his head.

  “You’re the thief. The woman who stole my uncle’s time machine.”

  She said nothing. Stephen couldn’t see her face with the sun behind her. But the crown of red curls fingered her unmistakably.

  “Where are we?” He struggled to sit up and she backed off a bit. “When are we?”

  “I didn’t steal the machine.” She had a light voice, cultured with a touch of an Irish accent. “I found it and borrowed it.”

  “Found it? A likely story. Where?”

  “Right here as a matter of fact. Soon after, it became my only possible escape route and I used it as such. Blame me for that if you will.”

  “You couldn’t have found it here. It’s never been out of my uncle’s workroom.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Mr....”

  “Longstreet. Stephen Longstreet.”

  “My name is Bridgetta Maguire and I’m in the most desperate situation. I’m sure, Mr. Longstreet, you’ll be wanting to help me once I tell you all.”

  She shifted and turned her head as if listening for something. Stephen got his first real look at her face.

  That of an angel. Surrounded by such a glorious halo, it could be nothing else. For he saw she had skin like cream, a delicate profile and, when she turned back to him, clear wide eyes of blue.

  Gently he seized her wrist and drew her attention back to him.

  “When are we?” he asked again, intently.

  She pressed her lips together before saying, “You’d best prepare yourself, Mr. Longstreet. We’re in Warsaw, Poland. And the year is 1942.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “The future? We traveled to the future?”

  Stephen Longstreet repeated the words and Bridgetta nodded. Huddled amid the rubble against the back of the building, she’d tried to explain it to him—the parts she understood. He had a quick mind, yet he struggled visibly with this. “Somehow I always thought I’d travel to the past. Not the future.”

  “Your future is my past.” She had already related how she’d traveled here from 1962 where she worked—quite appropriately—as a caregiver for displaced children. Some things, it seemed, didn’t change.

  “You say you found my uncle’s time machine just parked in this yard…twenty years from now?”

  “Yes. I’d come to Poland from Ireland on a care mission. Not easy to get in behind the Iron Curtain but my organization is based in Switzerland so they were able to negotiate permission for a humanitarian effort.”

  “Iron Curtain?”

  “This part of Europe’s under Soviet control now. It looks quite different in my time. Still grim but…well, at least the rubble’s gone.”

  “Soviet?”

  “The Russians. Europe was divided up in the wake of the Second World War.”

  “Second?”

  “That’s right; you don’t even know about the first one, do you? Ironic that. It was supposed to be the war to end all wars. You can tell by where we’re sitting how well that worked.”

  He glanced around, widening his eyes. Bridgetta couldn’t help but notice they were very fine eyes indeed, brown and so deep a woman might lose herself in them.

  “What happened here?”

  “We’re in the middle of the ghetto—thousands of people crammed into a few square miles, slowly starving and dying of disease. They used to hold school classes here at this location till the Germans found out and razed the place.”

  “The Germans? But…we have decent relations with them. The Queen’s consort is German.”

  “Believe me, these Germans are not your friends. If they catch us or find out what we’re doing, we’ll be shot.”

  “Precisely what are we doing?”

  “Shh! Someone’s coming.” Bridgetta scrambled to her feet. “Stay where you are; keep as quiet as you can.”

  “But—”

  Bridgetta rose and turned to the collapsed wall where, chink by chink, broken masonry was being removed. A fissure appeared and the face of a woman peered in at her.

  “Miss? Are you there?” The words came in Polish, which Bridgetta had studied for her care mission. She glanced at Stephen who’d attained his feet and stood smashed against the wall, staring in disbelief. Poor man—Bridgetta supposed she wouldn’t believe any of it either, if she hadn’t been living it these past weeks.

  And things were about to get a whole lot stranger for him.

  “How many of you are there?” she asked the woman softly.

  “Three. There are three.”

  Bridgetta bit her lip. She didn’t know if she could handle three, especially with an extra passenger. But how could she refuse?

  “How old?”

  “My son, he is but ten months. Take him please. His name is Misha Goren.”

  A child was thrust through the narrow opening and Bridgetta reached for him instinctively. Thin and wasted, he didn’t appear ten months old but his eyes, large and dark, stared at Bridgetta gravely.

  He didn’t cry—these children seldom did. But his mother wept as she reached through the open
ing to caress his cheek in parting. Bridgetta’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Be a good boy.”

  The woman fled. Sometimes they lingered, starving for a last sight. Sometimes they couldn’t bear to linger.

  Another face appeared in the opening. The woman spoke rapidly. “You must take her. There have been more deportations and not enough food. All my others have died from the fever. Please!”

  A small cherub with dark curls came through the opening. Bridgetta, finding Stephen at her elbow, passed the first child to him and cuddled the second against her breast.

  “What’s her name? How old?”

  “Eleana Lieberman. She is three.”

  Eleana’s mother left, sobbing. Another face replaced hers. “My son…”

  “I’m sorry.” Bridgetta could barely speak for her emotion. “I do not think…”

  “You must take him.” The desperate mother’s large eyes engaged Bridgetta’s through the slot. “If not, he will die. I fear we will all die. Quickly, someone comes!”

  “What is his—”

  “Eli Meller. He is nearly five.”

  The child, improbably small for his age, came at Bridgetta through the narrow opening head first. She tucked Eleana in one arm to accept him.

  “You are sure you can get him out of there?” the mother asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It is some miracle?”

  “It is.”

  “Then go with God!”

  Eli’s mother hastily began to replace the rubble in the opening.

  “Mama,” said one of the children softly. Bridgetta turned and found herself staring into Stephen’s eyes.

  “What is this? Why…”

  “They give them up in hopes of saving them. I told you it was important. Now come, we must get out of here at once.”

  He hesitated only an instant, little Misha in his arms. “Does the unit need to be wound?”