Thieves

by Lyn South

  I smirk and playfully tug on his mop of curly black hair, tipping his head down and forward so I can assess the damage. “Didn’t even break the skin. Don’t be such a baby.”

  “You okay?” He studies me with wary eyes. “I cleaned the trash can in the bathroom. Eat something that disagreed with you or was it something else?”

  “Just nerves, I guess,” I say, not sure whether to tell him about the Elizabethan hologram files. I’m not sure what to make of them myself. Maybe I should just keep it to myself for now. “Fagin and I are still fighting.”

  “Training wasn’t any better today?”

  “Nope. She’s been distracted and cross all day. Got a call halfway through our session and she sprinted out of the Sim Room like her hair was on fire.”

  “What d’you think happened?”

  “No idea. She didn’t say a word.” Fagin’s not one to tell everything she knows, but given our current situation, her secrets are scaring the hell out of me.

  “So you’re here to annoy me instead, is that it?” He gathers his tools, including the wayward spanner, and drops them into a toolbox, which he hauls up the walkway and into the ship’s main cabin.

  I follow him inside. “You’re the one who left me a note. You have something to show me?”

  As soon as we cross the threshold, he sweeps his arms open wide, gesturing to the opulent furnishings of the main cabin. The luxurious upgrade of the ship’s interior stops me in my tracks.

  Instead of the dull, scratched Formica worktables and cabinetry of our typical transports, there’s expensive looking hardwood—cherry, I think—that gleams with a high-gloss shine. The cabin lights are intact and seem to work and I can stand in the middle of the aisle between two rows of luxury seating facing forward toward the cockpit with at least two feet of space between my outstretched hands and either wall. A rich, earthy fragrance hangs in the air, a mix of new leather and lanolin-polished wood.

  “Holy Mother of—”

  “I know,” Nico says, interrupting. He leans a forearm against a row of sleek cabinets above a pair of crew seats and beams a huge smile. “Not our typical junk ride, is it?”

  “It sure as hell isn’t.” My fingers run across the tops of the high-backed seats—the fine grain leather is butter-smooth. I push the back of the seat until it swivels around and opens up to me, then sink down into the chair. The seat cushion is five inches thick and molds itself to my backside like the perfect pair of jeans. “My bed isn’t this comfortable,” I sigh. “Which big shot gets to travel around in this baby?”

  “You,” Nico says.

  “If you’re joking to get back at me for startling you earlier—”

  “There are two things I never joke about, Dodger.” His face turns solemn for a moment, and he places a hand over his heart in an earnest gesture. “The beauty of an expensive ship and how to make the perfect paella.” He breaks into a wide grin again and his eyes sparkle. “This is our ship. We could christen her Redemption in your honor.”

  “Smart ass,’” I say, giving him a smile. “Who the hell gave us a ship like this? Are they insane?”

  “My Mami always said, ‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth.’ C’mon, I’ll show you around.”

  He guides me through every inch of the ship. There’s a small ready room in the aft section behind the main cabin. It boasts the same hardwood and leather furnishings as the main cabin, complete with modernized replicators that dispenses gourmet food like Boeuf Bourguignon and fois gras with truffles, not those disgusting meal bars.

  There are four private cabins, each appointed with feather-soft beds and state-of-the-art technology, including personal replicators for late-night snacks. On the lower deck, cargo bays are filled with empty crates ready to store the historical relics we bring back. Empty wardrobe rooms, ready to be filled with Renaissance clothing, are marked with each of our names.

  “What do you know about the Benefactors?” I say as I follow Nico back to the main deck.

  He settles into the Commander’s chair and flips through pre-departure checklists. “You know as much as I do. They hire us to steal things and they pay us well. They’re anonymous because when you’re sponsoring illegal time travel, you want to avoid the authorities as much as possible. They also break into apartments on occasion to get a target’s attention.”

  “You know people who move in those circles. Haven’t you heard gossip about the Benefactors that’s not common knowledge?”

  “After the visit from the Brute Squad last night, I can see why you’re curious. In all the time I’ve known you, the only thing you’ve ever been concerned with is when the Benefactor payment will hit your bank account.”

  “Not this time. Something feels...off,” I say, fiddling with a lever on the console.

  Nico’s brow furrows and he hisses through his teeth at me. “Don’t touch anything in Betty’s cockpit unless I say it’s okay,” he says, smacking my hand away from the controls.

  “Betty?” I laugh. “You named the ship’s AI program after a girl?”

  “Pilots naming ships after beautiful women is a time-honored tradition, and no woman was more beautiful than Betty Grable. She was the sexiest pin-up girl alive when I was a pilot during the war.” Nico strokes the sleek curve of ship’s command console with his fingertips. “She is the most sophisticated artificial intelligence set-up I’ve ever seen. Watch this. Betty, display Château d’Amboise, the royal residence of Francis the First of France. Year: 1532.”

  “Image onscreen now,” Betty replies, her voice is soft, seductive. Nico ignores my raised eyebrow.

  A small three-dimensional holographic model of rolling green fields and an enormous palace hovers on the display pad above the cockpit console.

  Nico continues. “The old ships have two-dimensional maps, not these kinds of holographic images where—”

  “We have holographic images everywhere. That’s not new technology.”

  “Think so, huh?” He leans back in the chair and cocks his head to the side. “Betty, magnify image of the people walking toward the palace.”

  “Magnifying image by a factor of one thousand, honey,” Betty replies.

  Honey? I mouth at him and snicker.

  “I am programmed to emulate the soothing tone Commander Garcia prefers. Your commentary is rude and unprofessional.” Betty replies with what I swear is a hint of resentment. If I didn’t know better, I’d say its feelings are hurt. “Nico, honey, shall I lock this human out of systems access?”

  “Did the computer just scold me?” Artificial intelligence got a lot snarkier after programmers included personality infusion as part of the customization package.

  “You could be a little nicer,” Nico sniffs. “I’ve programmed your access to all non-engineering systems at priority level one. You also have back-up emergency access to critical ships’ systems in the event I’m incapacitated.” Then, to the computer, “Betty, I expect you to be nice to Dodger. Don’t give her any lip.”

  “If you say so...Doll,” Betty replies, the resentment slides into grudging obedience and the emphasis on the term of endearment was—I’m sure—meant to further stake a claim on Nico.

  The image swirls creating contrails of green and blue—the mingling of the earth and sky of a late summer afternoon—as Betty manipulates the image to magnify the young couple. A canopy of bright green leaves sways gently with the breeze as the pair, dressed in French Renaissance clothes, pass beneath them. Their mouths move wordlessly as they stroll through the meadow.

  “When I get the sound working, we should be able to hear their conversation,” Nico says, studying my reaction. He chuckles under his breath when my mouth drops open in confusion.

  “Why would a navigational program include human representations in the hologram?”

  “Because it’s not just a navigational program,” he replies. “What we’re watching are real French people taking a lovely afternoon stroll in the year Fifteen Thirty-Two.”

  We
watch as the man pulls his companion into an embrace, then turns her around and walks her backwards, claiming her mouth with bruising until she’s backed into a tree. He pulls the long skirt up to her knees and slips his hand beneath it. Her mouth opens in what I assume is a moan.

  “Got popcorn?” I ask. “This is getting good.”

  When the man lowers his britches, Nico leans forward and, with awkward throat clearing, zooms the camera out to a respectful distance that blurs the action.

  “You don’t like watching?” I tease.

  He gives me a double-take, frowning at my ear-to-ear grin. “What if Fagin walks in while we’re watching Renaissance porn.” He taps the controls and the scene changes to a clergyman leading a daily mass in the royal chapel.

  “Yes, this is much better,” I say, giggling.

  He slaps the enviro controls and a blast of frigid air shoots out of the overhead vents. “Damn cabin is always overheating,” he says. He gestures at the hologram with a flat hand. “Focus, please. This is bleeding-edge technology. No one has ever before watched live-action footage from hundreds of years ago as it’s actually happening.”

  “That’s real time?”

  “Real people. In France. Right now.”

  A beat. “Bullshit.”

  “Not bullshit. Look at this.” Nico cycles through several other images. The cooks in the kitchen preparing the king’s meal; the queen of France, and her ladies playing a game of cards; finally, King Francois meeting with his advisors.

  “I’ve heard about this technology,” Nico says, “but I’ve never seen it in action. Observer missions used to record events they witness and bring them back to study. Now we can observe real people in our target environment even before we get there. The Benefactors must’ve spent billions on this ship.”

  “The Benefactors or the military.” I peer at the scene playing now: King Francois, deep in conversation with his noblemen. The reality of what I’m watching sinks in and its power is astounding.

  Conscious now, of the significance of what he thought was just a cool feature of the new ship, Nico lowers his voice. “It’s all been conjecture; whispers of experimental technology that was still in testing. Someone figured out how to transmit live action between a target environment’s year and ours.”

  Nico’s eyes narrow. He gets up, stretches, and glances around the cabin before thumbing through some papers on a clipboard. He gives me a sideways glance full of meaning before his eyes flit to the corner above my head; my eyes follow his to the corner, too. The cameras.

  They’re watching us.

  “Maybe the Benefactors want you to understand how good your life could be if you behave yourself.” He pauses, then asks, “You hungry?”

  “Starving,” I say, playing along as I follow him to the shuttle door. Right now, I’m not sure I could choke chocolate down past the lump in the back of my throat.

  “Me, too,” he replies, grasping my hand and giving it a squeeze.” Betty, lock up for me, huh?”

  “Sure thing, Hot Stuff,” Betty replies.

  Once we’re on the out of the hangar, Nico pulls me aside. “In the last twelve hours, we got a state-of-the-art Timeship and the Benefactors fired a warning shot over the bow at you with the consigliere visit. How did you get on their radar like this? It’s gotta be more than being late to extraction points a few times.”

  “How the hell should I know? Maybe we’re overthinking this. There are some expensive artifacts we’re bringing back. Maybe they want the fastest, most technologically advanced ship for this job.”

  “We steal priceless artifacts on every mission. They wouldn’t give us the first ship to broadcast live action feeds from the other side of the time vortex without a damn good reason. Why us? Why now?”

  “Maybe all the junkers are assigned to other missions.” Even as I say the words, I don’t believe them.

  “They could have given this luxury liner to a sanctioned Observer mission instead of us,” Nico replies. “We need to tread very carefully. Do you understand?” He looks me dead in the eyes and there’s no mistaking the seriousness in his face.

  The Consigliere’s warning to get my shit together rings in my head.

  “I’m gonna look for a way to encrypt or distort the data feed, on demand, so we can have private conversations when we need to. Your job,” he plants a finger softly in my chest as he holds my gaze, “is to stay under their radar. As far as they’re concerned, the Consigliere’s visit scared you straight.”

  I take a steadying breath, an attempt to squelch the panic jacking up my heart rate. I put my hand on his chest. His heart is hammering as fast as mine. “I’ll try.”

  “Gotta do more than try, babe. One warning is probably all we’ll get. And they’re watching us.”

  Chapter 8

  For weeks, Queen Elizabeth fills my nightmares in bizarre snippets reflecting the milestones of my life: Elizabeth is there when Papa is murdered. She herds hundreds of Acadie refugees, including Maman and me, onto a doomed ship sailing for the American colonies. Elizabeth sells me into indentured bondage to the captain of a merchant vessel in New Orleans.

  Like grainy, imperfect spools of film from an ancient newsreel, pockmarked with dark spots and blurs, her image runs on a loop through my head while I’m awake. Her shadow is in every face I see; her voice is the echo thrumming beneath every conversation. She’s a ghost that has destroyed my life in a million ways.

  This morning, as Fagin and I worked through more mission details, I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of her watching me from the shadows—smug satisfaction blazing in her steely eyes.

  The center of the room is clear of furniture, leaving space enough for multi-character holographic recordings, queued up from the Observer’s Renaissance archives. A series of French court vignettes, circa 1532, rotate in the sequence Fagin designed to complete our initial entry into Calais. Par for the course in this mission, Fagin and I find ourselves on opposite sides of the initial rules of engagement.

  We’ve been arguing strategy all morning, and Fagin dives into her usual modus operandi when faced with an intransigent opponent: She attacks with a barrage of words, intending to overwhelm me with the sheer volume of information. It doesn’t take long before my attention wanders.

  Fagin discusses the rhythm of French court life: the hierarchy of the nobility, who we must befriend to get close to the king in the shortest time possible, the criticality of getting the all-important invitation to meet King Henry and Lady Anne. On and on and on she talks, until her words run together into a jumble. Meanwhile, I can’t tear my thoughts away from Elizabeth.

  CRACK!

  The sound jolts me out of my daydream and propels me over the armrest of my chair and onto my feet. “What the hell was that?” I gasp, trying to steady my pulse to a rhythm slower than light speed.

  Fagin leans forward and places both palms on the thick leather-bound portfolio she used to pound the wood table and glares at me. “Now that you’re back in the present,” she says, not bothering to smooth the irritation in her voice, “recite back everything I said in the last two minutes.”

  “You’re kidding,” I say, feeling more wounded at being treated as though I need a nursemaid than feeling guilty at being called out. “We’ve discussed mission strategy options backwards and forwards and sideways for six weeks. If we’re not ready to decide—”

  “Recite the last thirty seconds back to me. I’ll settle for that much,” she says. “This isn’t a game. They have called me into three meetings with Consiglieres because of your attitude. What must I do to get through this thick skull of yours?” She thumps her knuckles against the middle of my forehead; an attention-getter is what she called it when I was a child and had lost focus or misbehaved during training.

  There’s silence. The kind of quiet where the undercurrent in the air is charged with anger and frustration. For Fagin, the saying “don’t get mad, get even,” isn’t a cliché. It’s a mantra. A way of life.


  It’s been a long time since I was on her shit list—my attempt, at fifteen, to run away and marry an eighteenth-century pirate springs to mind—but the throbbing behind my eyes and across the front of my head reminds me it’s an unpleasant place to be.

  She doesn’t move. Doesn’t break eye contact. Her gaze is hard and cold, and a quiver shoots down my spine that chills me as thoroughly as if I had just broken into a fevered sweat. I blink and look away. “I understand the danger we’re in.”

  “I remain unconvinced until you show me otherwise.” She still doesn’t break eye contact.

  “We’re going about this all wrong,” I say. Rather than trying to recount the finger points of Fagin’s lecture—and, let’s face it, I don’t remember a thing she said—I change tactics. I nod at the life-sized holographic image of an auburn-haired beauty with a long nose and pouting lips. “Eleanor of Austria, King Francois’ second wife, won’t get us into the retinue accompanying him to Calais. The Boleyn girls attended his first wife, Queen Claude, and adored Lady Anne. While this fact isn’t lost on Eleanor, the queen is also a staunch Catholic and history says she’ll never legitimize Anne by meeting with her.”

  “Eleanor can get us access to her husband,” Fagin says in a tone that expects full agreement. “It would make sense to get close to the King by getting close to her.”

  “There’s another way.”

  “Enlighten me.” Fagin settles into a high-backed wood chair and spreads her arms open in a gesture of invitation. “If the queen isn’t the entry point to the French court, who is?”

  I smile. “Computer, display Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly as she was in 1532.” Eleanor disappears, replaced by a golden-haired woman with a pointed chin and dark eyes. “This is Frankie’s maîtresse-en-titre.”

  “Frankie?” Fagin snorts out a laugh. It’s the first laugh I’ve heard from her in weeks. “And how does his attachment to his official mistress benefit us?”