by Lyn South
By the time I land on the ground-level promenade, there isn’t another person in sight except for the would-be assassin. Gasping for breath, I spin around and around, looking for the next direction, some clue as to the route Anne’s failed executioner has taken.
“Nico, where is he?”
“He ducked behind that grove of bushes over to your left. I didn’t see him come around the other side, so he could be waiting for you to move past him. Move around to your right and come up behind him on the other side.”
A flash of multi-colored light streaks upward from behind the bushes.
“Is it me or did that flash of light look like a transporter beam?” I poke my head around the leading edge of the shrub.
Nothing.
“Maybe. I don’t know,” Nico says. “I don’t have a camera on that side of the bushes. But, the long-range camera from the West side of the garden would’ve picked up anyone running out from behind that greenery, no matter which direction they were headed. And it should pick up a transport in progress, too.”
There are voices shouting near the palace; the king’s guards are joining the pursuit.
A multi-color beam of light—it looks like a rainbow filtering down through the barren tree branches—appears down a stone path a few dozen meters away. The light shifts between green and blue until a steady blue light comprised of all-too-familiar energy fractals emerges.
Merde.
“Definitely a transporter beam.” I say, trying to steady my breathing.
“Yep, and it’s not one of us. Both Fagin and Trevor are onsite with you,” Nico says.
The dark-clad figure materializes from within the light and stands next to a knight-shaped topiary.
“Seems Trevor’s not bullshitting about having backup,” Nico says.
The failed slayer’s arms are raised, stretched wide as though welcoming my pursuit.
A subtle gesture from the gloved hand urges me closer. My steps are slow as I scan the garden for anyone else who might also have seen the attacker appear out of thin air.
Judging from the volume of the shouting, the king’s guards are closing in, but they’re probably too far away to have witnessed what they would surely have deemed as witchcraft.
The figure stands, unmoving and silent. As I get closer, I get my first good look at the mask: a full-face black leather executioner’s hood with slits for the eyes and mouth, making the features of the one beneath it undistinguishable.
The cloaked one stands as rigid as the stone statues lining the path on either side of me. I close more than half the distance between us when the transporter haze reappears like a halo emanating from within the figure itself.
The air vibrates with a faint hum, and the transporter light grows brighter. A sideways cock of the head, then the assassin waggles a few fingers at me in farewell.
Oh no, you fucking don’t. A primitive snarl explodes into a howl as I sprint toward him. My fingertips brush the billowing cloak flapping in the breeze.
A final lunge forward and, instead of grappling with the attacker, I collide with thin air.
A patch of loose gravel pitches me headfirst into a half-frozen mud hole. My kirtle rips as my knees and hands plunge through the surface layer of ice and grind into the layer of rock beneath it. My chin hits the ground with a bone-jarring thunk that makes my ears ring.
I crawl out of the slurry. Splotches of blood stretch across the raw, shiny wounds on my palms, and I feel the sting of the same broken skin on my kneecaps.
We’ve been playing defense with Trevor for too long, and now there are more Observers on the ground as her backup. Who knows how many of them there are? Whatever else is going on with this shit show, one thing is painfully clear: This mission isn’t just about teaching me a lesson for going rogue with the side jobs on other jobs.
My stomach churns as I march past the palace guards who are still searching the grounds for the attacker.
Courtiers gape at the sludge smeared on my torn clothes and dripping from my chin. I take the stairs two at a time, on my way to the queen’s apartments where hysterical cries echo through the corridors.
Fagin spots me as I enter, ragged and bloody, into Anne’s bedchamber. Her eyes go wide and she extricates herself from Anne’s frantic grasp. I motion to the outer chamber and she follows.
“What the hell is going on?” Fagin asks. “We’re supposed to be the only mercs here.”
“Not anymore,” I say. “Looks like the Benefactors sent Trevor reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements to do what? We just watched an attempted assassination on Anne Boleyn by a time traveler,” Fagin says. She paces, wild-eyed and on the verge of hyperventilating. “We’ve just entered a whole new realm of disastrous complications. We’ll have government agents breathing down our necks before too long.”
“That’s probably a good bet,” Nico says, in a chagrined tone. I picture him rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when he’s embarrassed or flustered. “That data feed wasn’t jammed. I’m sure we broadcast it back home.”
“Can we trace the attacker back to his ship? They’ve got to have a transport around here somewhere,” I say.
“I’m tracing the transporter’s sub-space signature. It’s very faint, so I don’t know if I can pinpoint their location or not. Maybe I can get close enough that our geo-probes can pick up any other energy pulses that might indicate a camouflaged ship.”
“This is bad,” Fagin says, still pacing. “Really bad.”
“Calm down,” I say, still shaking from the encounter with the assassin. “You’ve told me a million times, getting flustered is a waste of energy.”
Fagin looks at me like I have three heads. “Flustered? Someone tried to kill a key historical figure years before she’s supposed to die. I’m way past ‘flustered,’” She stops pacing and glares at me. “Why aren’t you more upset?”
In the last few months, I’ve seen sides of Fagin I never knew existed. My once-unflappable mentor is slipping into increasingly agitated and paranoid states. The Fagin before me now is terrified, bordering on unhinged.
“I am upset.” I say. Just not in the same way you are. I want to say those words aloud. But if I do, the whole sorry mess will pour out of me.
Chapter 21
“I thought the government put a lid on intertemporal assassinations,” Nico says when we return to the ship. “Once the GTC gets wind of this, there’ll be so many Observers on the ground, we won’t be able to tell the locals from the time travelers.”
“Are you sure the data feed of the chase in the garden got through?” I ask.
“I filter as much as I can, especially when you guys are somewhere you shouldn’t be. But if there are too many unexplained breeches in communication feeds and protocols, there’s a metric fuckton of questions to answer when we get home. It’s better to let the mundane feeds go through with no interference. Going up the stairs after dinner was supposed to be a mundane event.”
“So no filter?” I ask.
“No filter,” he confirms.
The best- and worst-case scenarios for swarms of Benefactor proxies sent to evaluate the situation plays in my head. Whether or not this staircase incident stays a curious blip on the radar or explodes into a full-blown investigation, the assault on Anne complicates things.
If the assassin wasn’t Trevor, then who the hell was it?
I’m so caught up in my own head, I hear only part of Fagin’s question. “—frame the attack as court intrigue by the anti-Boleyn faction?” She rubs her chin.
“Nope,” Nico says. “The broadcast feed included the attacker’s transporter sequence. The assassin is a time traveler.”
Fagin blows out a sharp exhale. “Nico, keep a Comm channel open to see if you can pick up GTC’s chatter. Let us know if you find anything on the transporter signal. Maybe we’ll get lucky and pinpoint their location so we can figure out who the hell they are.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Got e
yes on Trevor?”
“She’s in the kitchens scrubbing pans.”
There’s a sharp cry from Anne’s bedroom. Fagin and I rush into the room to find her ladies propping her up in a cloud of pillows. They arrange her like she’ll break if they move her the wrong way. Mary Boleyn, busy stuffing a pillow behind Anne’s head, catches sight of me. “Mademoiselle, has the doctor arrived? My sister’s injuries must be treated.”
“Not yet, my lady. I’m sure he will be here soon.”
Anne pushes herself higher on the pillows, wincing from the effort. The pinched expression relaxes when she spots me. “Clémence, come.”
My feet feel like they’re encased in lead. The last place I want to be is anywhere near this bed. I take a full minute to drag myself to her side.
“How are you, my lady?” I ask.
Anne strokes her belly. “All will be well. I’m sure of it. I am forever grateful for your bravery. You and Madam Fagin saved my life.”
Fuck me. Did I just become her hero?
Tears slide down Anne cheeks. The ladies-in-waiting huddle closer, their comforting tones mingling with Anne’s whispered prayers for a male heir.
If I don’t plant this letter fast, I’ll lose my nerve and any chance of saving my family.
Extricating myself from Anne’s grasp, I say, “My lady, allow me to fetch the doctor. He is too long in coming.”
Anne keeps my hand in her grasp and pulls me toward her. She plants a kiss on my cheek. Reflexively, I pull back and brush my fingertips across the spot, still warm from her breath.
“Soon, I will bear the king an heir. He will be his father’s son and sit on the throne one day.” Her voice cracks with emotion. “We have you to thank for it.”
Swallowing hard, I push myself to stand on quivering legs and somehow drop a curtsey without falling over. “Your servant, madam,” I say, then gesture toward Fagin and the exit. “With your permission, I will fetch the doctor.”
She nods, gratitude spilling down her cheeks.
By the time Fagin and I reach the corridor, the Wyatt letter feels as heavy in my pocket as a millstone around my neck. Its gravitational pull dragging me down. In my other pocket, a sedative hypo spray in case I run into guards in the king’s apartments and a small data pad to send instructions to the ship’s computer. One tap on the display and Betty will run the looped video file in my LensCam feed so Nico thinks I’m anywhere but in King Henry’s chambers.
If I don’t plant this letter today, I’ll never do it.
By the time we reach the Great Hall, where lower-ranking courtiers linger over their meals, Fagin has quickly outpaced me. When she realizes I’m not behind her, she stops and turns back, joining me as I stand near the fireplace.
“Is there a problem?”
“I told Lady Anne I would fetch a doctor,” I say, careful to keep my voice steady. Fagin looks me up and down, then tilts her head as she meets my eyes. She’s looking for something. Keep it together. “Are you starting to like her?”
“Are you kidding?” I feign disgust. The truth is: I’m beginning to feel something warm towards Lady Anne. I wouldn’t go so far as to label it liking her. “No. If the doctor doesn’t show up, I don’t want him telling the king or Lady Anne that I never spoke to him. I’ll get to the ship as fast as I can.”
Her eyes narrow and she considers me a moment longer. “Don’t take long. Doesn’t sound like whatever Nico wants us to see can keep.” She pauses when she spots something over my shoulder. “Uh-oh.”
When I turn to see the cause of her exasperation, I’m greeted by the sight of Becca Trevor clearing dishes from the tables. Trevor casts furtive, smirking glances in our direction like she has more nasty secrets she’s just dying for us to find.
“Go on,” I say. “Get back to the ship. I won’t be long.”
I wait until Fagin’s out of sight, then slip from the room when Trevor’s back is turned. Once in the corridor, I take the data pad out of my pocket and tap the video loop file.
“Dodger?” Nico’s says, concerned. “Your LensCam feed just flickered off and back on. You okay?”
“Yeah. Probably just a glitch.” Another lie to add to the first one.
“Get back to the ship and we’ll have a look. You might need a new pair.”
“Be there soon. I have to find the doctor.”
“Roger,” Nico replies.
Without another word, I mute the CommLink mic, too.
Two guards—both new to court—stand watch at the king’s chamber door. I flash my most alluring smile. “Is this where they hide court’s most handsome men? Sentry duty?”
They puff up their chests, reveling in my attention, yet somewhat wary of an unaccompanied woman’s presence outside the king’s apartments.
“I have a message for the king,” I say. “From Lady Anne.”
The beefier of the two narrows his eyes. “None but the king or his counselors are allowed in his chambers without permission. If you give the message to me, I will give it to the king.”
Fat chance, buddy.
I slip the letter out of my pocket and hold it up. “Surely, we can make an exception for love’s messenger. The letter bears Lady Anne’s seal and she told me to place it in the king’s prayer closet myself. If I can count on you to help complete this task, I would be ever so...” I walk my fingers up the beefy man’s chest as I speak, and brush my index finger across the tip of his nose. “...grateful to you.”
The men exchange wary looks. The skinnier of the two gives an apologetic shrug. “We have our orders, my lady. You cannot enter unaccompanied.”
“Then, there is the way for me to complete my task and for you to obey your orders. If you escort me inside, then I won’t be unaccompanied, will I?”
They still look hesitant, so I play the ace with my most doleful expression. “Our future queen will be displeased if I fail her, and it would be most unfortunate if they placed any blame on your shoulders for my failure.”
The beefy man shakes his head and, just as I reach into my pocket for the hypo spray, he unlocks the king’s door. “I will escort you, my lady. I am Cupid’s most humble servant.” He smiles at me and ushers me into the king’s apartments.
Nico’s warning rings in my ears. I could have philosophical conversations with myself for the next year about morality and the terrible responsibility we have to keep time in its place, and still come back to the same conclusion: Having my parents alive is worth the risk of a one-way ticket to a prison planet.
With trembling hands, I place the letter on the padded rail of the small kneeler in the king’s prayer closet. “Gotcha,” I say, softly.
“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle?” Beefy man says, confused.
“Nothing. Thank you for your help,” I reply, and kiss his cheek before slipping into the corridor and down the privy stairs.
The whole thing took less time than I thought—who knew the guards would be willing accomplices in the name of love—but it was still too long an absence for Fagin.
Her voice booms in my ear. “Dodger?”
“On my way,” I say, as I sprint down the corridor.
“Get a move on, kid. Nico found the transporter signature, and he’s got a clip of the assailant, unmasked. You need to see this.”
#
When I get to the ship, I find Fagin and Nico wound tighter than a three-day clock.
“Look. Right there,” Nico says, projecting the three-dimensional hologram image onto the small conference table in the ready room.
A three-inch-tall image bolts through the winter-decayed landscape of Greenwich Palace’s gardens. The figure is clad in black, head-to-toe. His face is visible, in profile, and is covered in black. Behind him, a swirl of russet-colored taffeta and me in hot pursuit.
“John Wilkes Booth, I presume?” I ask, feeling the same sense of frustration I did when I chased him through the gardens for real.
“Booth was a successful assassin,” Fagin replies. “Our guy isn
’t.” She pauses. “Can we increase the image quality?”
“A bit.” Nico moves a spare window with sweep of his hand, then zooms the video footage screen with a reverse pinch motion and the image expands. “Magnifying image one hundred percent.”
While the resolution is somewhat pixelated, the shape of the executioner’s mask is identifiable. “That’s our man,” I say.
There’s a shaft of brilliant multi-color light and a shot of me plowing through swirling mist just after the attacker disappears. The next shot is a flying blur that lands in a half-frozen mud puddle.
Nico air taps the rewind command and the scene backtracks to the frame where the figure disappears in a haze of light and I land in the mud puddle. He rewinds again and again until it’s just me vaulting into the muck.
“Seriously?” My deadpan response must be hysterical because Nico belly laughs himself into tears.
Even Fagin cracks a smile. “It is entertaining to watch. You’re quite graceful flying through the air.” She tilts her head to one side and peers at the holographic version of me lying face-down in the mud. “Do you know how many credits a good mud bath costs back home? You’re getting one for free.”
Nico wipes tears from his cheeks. “Would you rather be known for always getting trapped in the toilet on missions or this heroic action shot of diving into the mud?”
“Can we stop relieving my blooper reel and get to the point? We know the assailant transported out of there, but where did he go?”
“Computer, trace the transporter signal embedded in hologram file 1532.SOL142,” Nico says. “Display geographic visual in tabletop configuration.” He glances up at me and taps out a few more commands on the display screen. “This camera is several miles from the location where the transporter signature ends. It’s gonna be a little grainy and unfocused, but I’ll dial the resolution in the best I can.”
The hologram shifts scene to the middle of a barren field. Nico and Fagin exchange glances and give me expectant looks, like I’m supposed to know what I’m looking at.
“He transported to an empty cow pasture?” I ask, confused.