by Lyn South
“Message to maintenance department sent,” the computer replies.
“Hello to you, too,” Nico says. “You okay?” His eyes narrow in concern and he takes my hands in his. “Who was that guy and why was he giving commands to your computer?”
“He works for the Benefactors. He was in my apartment when I got home.”
“A Consigliere broke into your apartment?” Nico breathes out a low whistle and takes a slow step back. “What the hell did you do, Dodger?”
“Nothing. I didn’t do anything.”
“Something happened. Whatever it was, it must’ve been big. These people don’t screw around, and the fact that you’re still breathing means his visit was a just a warning.”
“I handled it fine,” I say, jerking my hand from his, irritated that his tone has turned annoyingly paternalistic. Truth is, I don’t know what kind of deep shit I’m in or how much deeper it could get. I’m more spooked over the entire situation than annoyed at Nico for giving voice to my fears.
I head to the kitchen to order wine from the replicator. Nico follows, snuggling up behind me as I open the cupboard to grab two glasses.
“I’m sorry,” Nico says, nuzzling my ear as he rubs my shoulders. “I didn’t mean to imply...look, these people are deadly. I want to know what’s going on so I can protect you. That’s all.”
The day’s tension coils inside me like a boa constrictor, squeezing its way through my body. He kneads his fingers over one stubborn knot that runs the length of my neck until it melts beneath the heat and pressure of his hand.
“I know it’s been a hell of a day, but you can’t stay this tightly wound or you’ll explode.”
“I’ll forgive you if you keep doing that,” I say, letting my head roll forward.
One by one, the lumps soften until everything feels warmer, looser. Still, this relaxation is only skin-deep. My mind can’t let go of the agitation gnawing at my nerves, the frenetic anxious throbbing that won’t quit.
I need action. Need a roaring bonfire, not smoldering embers. By the time Nico moves to my neck, I know exactly the kind of release my body needs.
“Kiss me,” I say in an urgent whisper.
“Are you sure? You’ve had a rough day. I don’t want to take advantage—”
“Yes, damn it, I’m sure.”
I pull him to me. His mouth is hot and savage on my skin as his lips blaze a trail from my earlobe, down my neck to the top of my shoulder. He retreats to my ear, sending sparks through my insides like a flint igniting tinder.
“Yeah. That’s it.” My breath quickens.
He braces himself against the cabinet with one hand and cups my breast with the other. He works slow, beautiful magic on my neck with his mouth.
I flip myself around to face him. He lets out a slow breath and runs one hand straight down the front of my body from my breasts to the apex of the mound between my thighs. His mouth hovers over mine, the promise of a kiss lingers in the air. He cracks a small smile, teasing me with a light brush of his lips against mine.
“Now. Please,” I say.
My frantic tugging at his clothes and a deep, wild kiss convince him the undercurrent of slow and sensual is now a racing, fervent craving for some man-handling.
He holds me by the shoulders, searches my eyes for agreement. I nod and he launches himself into removing his clothes, and mine, at a speed I haven’t seen since our first fumbling attempt at sex over a year ago.
Amid a torrent of kisses, he cups my ass in both hands, and lifts me until my toes skim the floor. The leading edge of the counter top—the porcelain tile cool against my flushed skin—supports most of my weight.
I wrap one arm around his neck and plant my other hand against the counter for balance. He thrusts upward, taking me with skilled precision. We careen off of each other in frenzied, undulating waves.
Hard.
Fast.
He pulls me in tighter, controlling the roll of my hips with both hands. His buries his face into my neck, panting. My breath matches his, and I nip his earlobe. His hands grasp my hips harder, fingers digging into my skin with urgent need.
His release comes seconds after my own and we’re left gasping, slumped against the counter. When he looks at me, a moment later, I see the worry in his eyes.
“I’m okay,” I reply, cutting off the question before he can ask. My breath calms into soft fluttering breaths.
He smiles. “Don’t get me wrong, that was great. I’m concerned—”
“Really, I’m okay.”
He frowns, then rests his forehead against mine. “Are you ever going to let me in there?”
“What?” I say. “You were just in—”
He places his palm on my chest. Gentle, yet firm. “You know what I mean.”
Damn. This isn’t a conversation I want to have right now. Or ever, really. So, I do what I usually do: change the subject. “What if the Consigliere, or his goons, comes back tonight?”
“Not likely,” he says. He doesn’t look happy that I’ve changed topics, but doesn’t press the point. “He knows he made an impression.”
My stomach grows queasy over the possibility the goons could reappear at my bed side. A throw pillow—usually stuffed into the corner of the settee occupied by the interloper—lay discarded on the floor. It’s disconcerting how one small thing out of place can make the entire apartment feel less safe.
“You can stay, if you like,” I say.
“You sure? We both have early mornings tomorrow. I have to be at the docks by seven o’clock to review the ship we’ve been assigned. Don’t you have another training session with Fagin?”
“I’m positive,” I say, picking up the pillow and tossing it back into the chair. I throw a breezy smile on my face, hoping it covers my apprehension. “Fagin can wait. Besides, I want to ravish you again later.”
He glances at the door, then back at me. “I’ll double-check the lock.”
I smile—a genuinely grateful smile—and head for the bedroom. Nico also checks the window locks, then crawls under the covers with me and snuggles up to my back. Within minutes, he’s snoring softly. I’m not so lucky.
After twelve hours in the Sim Center with Fagin and another vigorous tussle with Nico, I should be passed out. As exhausted as I am, my brain is still wired and restless. I could lay here tossing and turning all night as I ruminate on the shit-show my life has become or move to the living room and ruminate there. Since Nico has groggily asked if I’m okay twice in the last hour, I opt for the latter. No need for both of us to lose a night’s sleep.
The Consigliere’s black box sits on the coffee table. I pop the microchip into the Comm Panel on the wall and slip a pair of headphones over my ears to avoid disturbing Nico. The retina screen displays the program catalogue.
“Computer, project all programs beginning with Tudor ER1.”
There’s a soft buzz as the hologram projectors emerge from the ceiling and walls. The three-dimensional image flickers to life on the coffee table, and I sit cross-legged on the settee to watch.
A red-headed teenage girl dressed in Tudor clothing stands near a funeral bier. Her face is sorrowful and even a bit fearful. There are two other women and a young boy standing with her. They’re all wearing mourning clothes. On the platform is a bloated mass of flesh. It almost looks human.
The Observer’s narration begins.
King Henry the Eighth has lain in state in his presence chambers for ten days since his death on the twenty-eighth of January, 1547. After his wife and children—including his heir, Edward—say final goodbyes, the king’s funeral cortege will make its way from White Hall to Windsor Castle for internment, stopping for the night at Syon Abbey.
In his last days, the king commanded one of his attendants, Sir Anthony Denny, to summon Archbishop Cranmer to his side. By the time the archbishop arrived, the King, while still conscious, had lost the ability to speak. Recording H8, one-five-two documents the last exchange between the archbishop and
the king.
The scene changes to a dimly lit royal bedchamber. The Grooms of the Stool stand nearby, ready to perform any task required of them. King Henry lays on his deathbed as the Archbishop Cranmer leans on the edge of the mattress, tears in his eyes.
Cranmer moves closer to the king, speaking into his ear. “Your majesty,” he says, “give me some sign that you die in the faith of Christ.”
The room is silent and tense as Cranmer waits for an answer. There is nothing verbal, so he slips his hand into the king’s and speaks louder and with more urgency. “Your majesty, please give me a sign that you die in the faith of Christ.”
A beat.
Two beats.
“There,” Cranmer says in a hushed voice, “the king doth wring his hand in mind as much as he has the strength to do.”
“That is surely a sign of his hearty assent, Your Eminence.” Sir Anthony lets slip a sigh of relief. He nods at something the king holds between his interlaced fingers.”
I stop in mid-bite of another spoonful of my dinner, which has gone cold from neglect. “Computer, where did this file come from? I thought video of Henry on his deathbed didn’t exist.
“Unknown,” the computer answers. “I have no record of this information in my database.”
How did the Benefactors get someone inside the king’s chambers on the day he died? “Okay. Show me what’s in his hand. Increase magnification fifty percent.”
The program zooms in, but it’s not quite enough to see the object the king holds in his hands. “Increase magnification another twenty percent.”
The king’s wood sculpted rosary beads—the one on the acquisition list—emerges into sharp focus. “This better not be why I’m missing a night’s sleep,” I mutter out loud. “We already suspected he had the rosary on his deathbed.”
The recording jumps to the king’s funeral service. All but his son, King Edward the Fourth, are in attendance. The Observer picks up the narration.
Even after Henry’s break from the Holy See of Rome, the Requiem Mass is performed in Latin according to the faith the king practiced in his early years with Queen Katherine of Aragon, further evidence that Henry held to the old ways, in his deepest conscience, to his final days on earth. This practice of Catholicism would later be completely rejected by his most influential progeny during her reign as England’s queen.
The focus of the remaining footage is the young girl with the red hair: Elizabeth, the king’s daughter with Lady Anne Boleyn. There are the years she spent in the household of her step-mother, the Dowager Queen Katherine, that end in rumors that she slept with her step-father, Thomas Seymour.
There’s the short-lived time in the court of her beloved half-brother, Edward, until his untimely death from tuberculosis at age fifteen. Next is the rise and fall of Lady Jane Grey before the ascension of Elizabeth’s sister, more infamously known as Bloody Mary for her zealous persecution of non-Catholics. The program summaries Mary’s death and Elizabeth’s coronation.
I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to be looking for. Nothing strikes the dimmest chord or gives insight into why the Consigliere proclaimed viewing the file would make me the most powerful woman in history.
More highlights from Elizabeth’s reign pass before my eyes in a few hours’ time. She survives excommunication from the Catholic church, smallpox and the rebellion of her much-loved cousin, Mary Stuart, the Queen of the Scots. She rages against the pain of heartbreak inflicted by her secret lover, Robert Dudley, by marrying England itself.
She conquers the seas with her royal navy against the entire Spanish Armada and the battles, political plotting, and misogyny within her own court.
This woman is a force of nature and I would love her for the strength and grit and humor but for one annoying fact: She is my enemy.
Just before dawn, the final simulation plays, Elizabeth’s funeral. The narrator offers a summary of the queen’s life.
Elizabeth the First of England impacted the world by making her country one of the first superpowers in history. While the first clumsy attempts at claiming new worlds in the name of the English crown met with failure—footnote to Observers: refer to the holographic programs documenting the journeys of Sir Walter Scott and Sir Humphrey Gilbert for detailed explanations—ultimately, England colonized much of the North American continent.
Without Elizabeth on the throne in the sixteenth century, England wouldn’t have ventured into the New World—including French Acadia, which would later become Canada and parts of the former United States. In the late sixteenth century, England would also colonize India, Africa, and...
“Computer, pause.” I’m breathless, and not at all sure I’ve understood the Observer’s conclusions. I have to hear it again. “Rewind program twenty-five seconds.”
The simulation rewinds in a blur of motion and sound, then plays again.
Without Elizabeth on the throne in the sixteenth century, England wouldn’t have ventured into the New World—including French Acadia, which would later become Canada and parts of the former United States. In the late sixteenth century, England would also colonize India, Africa, and...
“Computer, pause program.” The three-dimensional Elizabeth freezes in place, sitting still as a stone as an artist captures her likeness on canvas. She is serene and authoritative. And powerful.
I lean as far forward as I can, and peer right into Elizabeth’s eyes; they’re so real that I’m almost surprised when I don’t feel her breath on my face. Moments ago, where I first saw a hero, I now see something that forces bile up into my throat. I get as far as the waste bin in the bathroom before I’m sick.
When I stagger back into the lounge, the holographic queen is still frozen in suspended animation, looking more like a tyrant with every passing second. The longer I stare, the more I want her to move and speak like a real-life human so I can scream in her face about what her greed has cost me.
Instead of screaming I let slip a long, slow breath and a curse. “Son of a bitch.”
Chapter 7
It’s morning. The sun is hot on my face and I’m sweating. I pull the corner of the quilt up to mop my forehead and realize that I never made it back to bed last night. I must have fallen asleep on the settee watching the hologram files.
“Nico?”
No answer. I check the bathroom to see if he’s in the shower. It’s empty. The sheets and pillows still bear his imprint, but they’re cool. He must’ve left early, but not before covering me as I lay on the sofa.
So sweet.
I pad into the kitchen to make coffee and notice the blinking light on the Comm Panel next to the replicator. A message from Nico. Had to go. Stop by the docks later. I have something to show you.
My eyelids feel like they’re scraping sandpaper when I blink; lack of sleep sucks every bit of moisture from my eyes. There’s a distant ache building in my temples and it’s gaining momentum. Gonna be a lovely day in the Sim Center, as shitty as I’m feeling.
Damn. What time is it?
Eight o’clock. I’m already thirty minutes late. I run through the shower, dress, and order a chocolate chip muffin from the Replicator to go with my coffee before running out the door.
Our training sessions have settled into a distinct pattern and today is no different: Fagin is sullen and stressed out. I’m sullen and stressed out. She scolds. We squabble. We make very little headway working through the simulations.
Training ends early when Fagin gets a call that drains the color from her cheeks. Without a word, she bolts from the Sim Lab in a state of near-panic. An hour later, when there’s still no word about when she’ll be back, I head to the ship docks in search of Nico.
The docks are crowded and busy, a typical Saturday morning. It’s a circus of constant activity. Mechanics and crew members fuss over maintenance issues and travel schedules outside the shipping office in the West corner of the hangar; Restorers teams load scientific equipment into the cargo bay of a large climate restoration
ship.
Other structures in the shipyard store military cargo ships and sleek luxury passenger vessels, all headed to different bases on Earth or to the Moon or Martian colonies. The security for those buildings is tight, but access to Timeships is tighter still, strictly controlled by the government and the Benefactors’ privatized corporate security. Neither the skills of these security forces, nor their resolve to protect their masters’ assets, are to be taken lightly.
The last time overconfident thieves attempted to hijack a Timeship, the reward for their ill-conceived venture was a one-way ticket to a prison planet. The imbeciles spent the rest of their lives in one of the most dangerous jobs in existence: working as human canaries in the artificially oxygenated mineral mines on Mars where life expectancy is measured in weeks, not months or years.
At the far end of a row of time travel vessels, I find Nico. It’s amusing to watch him balance on tiptoes, his upper body wedged inside the rectangular opening of the aft nacelle of a small ship marked with the hull number VSC-1024. His feet reposition every few seconds as he struggles to gain more leverage to reach whatever it is he’s trying to reach. Soft grunts punctuate his exertions, echoing briefly inside the fiberglass casing of his narrow workspace.
The ship is different from the utilitarian vessels we’re used to. It’s larger and the skin of the hull is a color I’ve never seen on a ship before: a pearlescent white that seems to shimmer and reflect a rainbow of colors depending on how the light strikes it.
I stand for a moment watching Nico’s continued gymnastics within the nacelle until an awkward bump of his elbow sends a wrench clattering to the concrete floor. He doesn’t seem to notice. Instead of retrieving it, Nico wedges his upper body farther into the carcass of the ship’s power supply. His grunting segues into pleas to the ship to cooperate with his efforts.
“Dropped something,” I say, picking the wrench up and placing it back in its place.
Nico startles and backs out of the opening, swearing loudly in Spanish as he scrapes the back of his head on the metal frame. He emerges, sweating and flushed from being buried almost to his waist in his work. He rubs his crown and frowns at me. “Stop sneaking up on me.”