by Lyn South
“I didn’t know he was here.”
“I did. Which is what I was trying to tell you while you ignored me.”
“Sorry.”
He glances over his shoulder, and asks softly. “How long did you plan it?”
Merde. He wants to do this now? “It’s...complicated.”
“Did you plan it from the beginning or was it a spur-of-the-moment thing?”
“Like I said. Complicated.”
His shoulders sag and he lets out a ragged breath. “Aside from the obvious cosmic implications, did you stop for a nanosecond to think about Fagin and me?” His voice is soft, wounded.
I move toward him and place a hand in the middle of his back. The warmth of his skin radiates through his shirt—he still wears the linen blouse of his Tudor costume, but the coat, doublet, and hose have been replaced by black sweatpants, wool socks, and athletic shoes.
“I couldn’t think about anything except saving Papa and Maman.” I feel his breathing change; it’s deep, controlled. Like he’s trying to contain an explosion. “I know I fucked up, but I need you to believe me.” I turn him around to face me. The pain in his voice pierces me, but I’m unprepared for the devastation in his eyes. “Someone added the part about Anne being pregnant to that letter. Henry wouldn’t have killed her if it were a matter of being in love with Wyatt. I think it was the thought of her carrying another man’s child that pushed him over the edge.”
His lips purse as he considers my words. “Who has a vested interest in keeping the king and his lady apart? Trevor may be the easy answer, but it has to be bigger than her.”
“Isn’t it obvious? She’s working with Carter. They probably planned this whole thing.”
“It has to be bigger than both of them. Why risk execution or a mindless exile to a prison planet for changing something so big in the timeline?” Nico steps back, shakes his head. “No. A fish stinks from the head and this has upper-echelon Benefactor stench all over it.”
I have no answer, so I change the subject. “Any idea what we do now? Like you said: Can’t go back. Can’t go home.”
“Only way out is through.” he says, echoing my earlier words. He nods his head toward the display panel on the wall. “Go on. I know you’re dying to find out, so why don’t you just ask?”
“Ask... what?” I say, slowly, not quite sure what he’s getting at.
“Run a query about your parents. See if Betty can find anything on them.”
Now that I face finally knowing the answer to the question, I’m not at all sure I want to ask it. What if they’re both still dead? Even worse, what if they never lived at all? What if—
“Go on. The sooner you know, the sooner we can focus on finding a way out of this mess.”
Deep breath. Here we go. “Betty, search historical records for Louis Arseneau, born 1727 in Saint John. Cross reference search: Mariette Longpré Arseneau, born 1730, also in Saint John.”
“Searching,” she replies.
My heart beats like a dozen hummingbirds’ wings in flight; each passing second feels like an hour. I sense Nico’s gaze on me, and glance over my shoulder. He is looking at me. I can’t quite decipher his mood. Is it curiosity in his eyes? Apprehension? Maybe both. He bites his lower lip then returns to his work.
“Records related to Louis Arseneau and Mariette Longpré Arseneau are inaccessible,” the computer says. “Try again later, honey.”
“What does that mean, inaccessible?” I say, typing the search criteria into the search field on the display panel. Historical records are recorded in multiple formats—holographic, written, and audio only. Still, my search returns no results. The error message displayed reads: Database offline. “Where are the historical records? No files display even through manual search.”
This gets Nico’s attention. He scrambles to his feet and rushes to peer over my shoulder. We stare at the blinking cursor where the database sub-folder list should be. “Damn. Who knows how man systems have been affected by whatever that energy pulse was.” he says. “Betty, modify diagnostic parameters to analyze all ship’s systems, priority on critical systems first. I want to know what’s malfunctioning, the suspected cause of the damage, how widespread the impact is, and recommended resolutions.”
“Just because she didn’t find anything doesn’t mean my parents aren’t out there,” I say. Now that the door has been opened, even just a crack, I need to run through it to see what’s on the other side.
Nico senses the urgency in my voice and gives me a look. He backs away, both hands held up to stop further conversation. It doesn’t work.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious to see what, exactly, has changed?”
“We’re not going outside until I get a handle on how much damage we’ve sustained.”
“Betty,” I say, as Nico places his diagnostic tools back into the open toolbox on the floor. “How long will it take to run the system tests?”
“The entire diagnostic array will take six hours to complete,” Betty says.
“Sounds like more than enough time for a quick recon mission into the village. Unless you just want to sit here and twiddle your thumbs while Betty works,” I say, smiling.
Nico sighs and looks me over head-to-toe. My gown is still damp with mud from the race to the ship from Tower Hill. He looks at his own clothes—not exactly eighteenth-century attire. “We need to get cleaned up. Do we have the right clothes in storage? We can’t go out there looking like holdovers from a Ren Faire.”
“There are a few pieces we can put together to blend in. It’s winter, so long, heavy coats will cover a multitude of fashion sins.”
I move toward the ladder, but Nico pulls me back. “Before I agree to anything, I have a few conditions: First, you do exactly what I say, the second I give you an order. We can’t lose track of each other for an instant; who knows whether our external communication will be online from one moment to the next?”
I salute and he responds with a smirk. “I’m not kidding, Dodger. I need eyes on you at all times.”
“Aye, Cap’n. And second condition?”
“If we find either of your parents...” His eyes go dark and serious. “No contact. Not a word. Not a gesture. Nothing.”
“But—”
He grips both of my shoulders and pulls me close. For a breathless moment, I hope for a kiss to get lost in. Instead, I get more grim reality.
“You’ve unraveled a damn big thread in the timeline.” His voice turns pleading. “Whatever you see, whatever you hear, don’t interfere. You’ll have to be satisfied with just knowing whether or not they’re here.”
My slight hesitation is enough to set his jaw in stone. “Do you want to make things worse? Either you agree to these conditions or I swear I’ll throw you over my shoulder and lock you in your quarters for however long it takes to get the hell out of here.”
I consider throwing a “you wouldn’t dare” at him, but I know—without a doubt—that he would dare if I don’t follow through with his conditions. “Fine. Agreed.”
His fingers dig into my shoulders. “Once more with feeling, please.”
I narrow my eyes at him, cross my heart, then raise my hand in a three-fingered oath that’s practically genuflection. “I solemnly fucking swear that I will obey your fucking orders until the fucking recon patrol is over.”
He relaxes his grip on me. “If nothing else, I trust it when you swear. I’m gonna hold you to your word. Take anything back and there will be hell to pay.”
Chapter 26
“Remember where we parked,” I say, trying to lighten the mood as we trudge through the ice-mud on the beaten path into Saint John.
A sideways glance at Nico confirms my suspicions: his pensive expression suggests he’s regretting giving permission for this venture into town.
He turns around and walks backward, peering toward the stone barn that hides our ship. If it weren’t cloaked, the nose of the ship would be visible for fifteen or twenty feet past t
he corner of the structure. For now, we can see only a gray winter sky and barren fields.
Nico adjusts the buckskin bag slung around his shoulders and turns his attention back to the road. “Better pray to every god you might believe in that the chameleon cloak doesn’t go on the fritz. If it does, our cover is blown.”
“You said we have at least enough power to finish running the diagnostic tests and maintain critical systems. Doesn’t that include the cloaking program?”
“It does, but only because I configured the critical systems list to include the cloaking program and life support and security systems. What worries me is having consistent power. It there’s a fluctuation in the power grid, it could impact which systems come online and how long they stay intact. The cloaking program could cause the chameleon shield to flicker from invisible to visible. If the power goes out completely while the cloaking is unstable, the ship could stay noticeable. That would be...bad.”
“The Master of Understatement.” I chuckle. “Succinct way to say we’d be screwed more than we are if the power grid fails.”
We walk for a quarter mile more in silence, surveying the terrain on the route toward Saint John, which lays two or three miles further down the road; we can see the first few buildings at the edge of town, standing like sentinels on either side of the path. There’s also a pillar of dark smoke stretching into the sky just beyond the northern-most border.
A bonfire of some sort, maybe?
We’d found passable eighteenth-century garb in the costume storage compartments: a chemise, long skirt, jacket, linen cap and neckerchief—covered by a long wool cloak—for me, and for Nico: synthetic buckskin breeches, linen shirt, and a thick hooded hunting frock that falls just to his knees.
The wind gusts as it rolls in off the sea, blowing my hem up several inches. We pull our woolen outer garments closer around our now shivering bodies, but it doesn’t seem to make much difference; the temperature feels like it’s dropped at least ten degrees since we left the ship. On the eastern horizon, a line of low, gray clouds stretches like a sheet for several miles north and south of us.
“Snow clouds,” I say. I pull my cloak’s hood up over my head. “If we’re lucky, we’ve got a couple of hours before that system moves in.”
Nico turns to check the ship’s visibility status again, and I point out the obvious: “You can go back to the ship if it makes you feel better. I can handle a simple recon mission.”
He laughs. “Like you did at Tower Hill? Nope. Thanks for playing. I’m not taking a risk that you’ll go off script on this one.” He chews his bottom lip as he considers me with a long sideways glance. “Where you go, I go.”
“Suit yourself.” I pause, glancing over my shoulder with Nico as he looks one more time. Still invisible. I take it as a good omen.
Instead of the quaint cottages and gray-shingled business establishments I remember, the main street is a hodge-podge of ramshackle apartments shoved together in a discombobulated stack that reminds me of a toddler’s clumsy, haphazardly built block tower. The edifices aren’t flush along their front—some are set several feet deeper than the unit right next door—and each door is painted a different color, making the whole structure look like a disorganized rainbow.
The apartment structure reaches skyscraper-esque height in some areas, and they butt up against each other so close, there isn’t a sliver of daylight through one building and the next.
“Not what you remember?” Nico says.
“Not even close.”
As jarring as Main Street’s aesthetic is, the most unnerving and noticeable detail about the town is the empty streets: There’s not a soul in sight. There are no animals around, either; no horses tied at hitching posts outside places of business, no dogs sniffing for food.
The only thing keeping me from thinking we’ve just dropped into a ghost town is the muted drone of a crowd—like the one at Lady Anne’s execution—coming from the East.
“This is weird,” I say, still scanning buildings on both side of the road. “Are they all on holiday?”
“I’ve got a bad feeling,” Nico says, fidgeting with the strap of the leather rucksack slung across his body. Inside the bag are two phasers. He opens the flap and digs them out, handing one to me. “Just in case.”
Nico tucks his phaser into the waistband of his breeches and conceals it with his hunting frock. I do the same with mine.
I nod toward the East. “Sound is coming from that way.”
“I’ll take point. You cover our backs.”
The streetscape changes when we turn right and head down the next avenue. The domiciles on this street are a dramatic change from the compact conditions we’d just seen. This street screams affluence: Stately homes feature Arabesque iron lace balconies, covered passageways, and repeating arches from one building to the next. If I didn’t know better, I’d say New Orleans’ French Quarter, during the years of Spanish influence, had been transplanted here.
Childhood memories are imperfect, but there isn’t a single familiar sight. Acadia of 1755—the year the Great Expulsion began and my childhood ended—doesn’t exist anymore; this place is definitely not my home.
Even the ocean, its brine coating my lips as the wind hits my face, smells different, tastes different. The air is also tinged with soot, the result—no doubt—of that smoke cloud rising in gradient plumes of silvered gray and black.
The smoke pillar looks bigger, more ominous, and I’m not altogether convinced it’s due to the point of view I have here compared to our view on the outer edge of town.
Nico seems to notice it, too. “Is it just me or does that smoke look worse?”
“Not just you,” I say.
“Can we take a short cut through there?” He points to a narrow alleyway on our right.
“Your guess is as good as mine. I recognize nothing here.”
He gives me a quick, sympathetic look, but doesn’t slow his gait as we move into position at the entrance to the backstreet. We pull our phasers and advance down the alley, settling into our ingrained recon patrol patterns. Nico checks everything on the left, I check the right side, both of us careful to spot-check sections of roof we can see.
When the top crate in a pyramid of boxes stacked against the left wall topples into our path, we swing around to lock phasers on whoever—or whatever—is moving around inside the pile. Out of the splintered wood, several streaks of gray scurry past and disappear around the corner behind us.
Nico lets out a slow breath. “Rats.”
My skin crawls. “I hate rats!”
It takes several more turns down other streets and alleys to find the wharf. The docks are an explosion of noise and heat, the latter emanating from a burning ship in the harbor—the light of the fire slices through the fog like a hot knife through butter. To the right of the ship that’s engulfed in flames—and minutes away from sinking into the bay—sits a smaller ship.
I’m so transfixed by the fire that I don’t realize Nico has moved until his hand stretches down into my face from above me. When I look up, I realize he’s standing on a stack of crates to get a better view of the situation. He pulls me up next to him and I get a panoramic view of the crowd.
Everyone in town must be standing on the docks watching the ships burn. There are hundreds of people.
At the front of the crowd, a platoon of Spanish soldiers guards three men, all of them bound. The prisoners are wrestled into a rowboat and taken to the second ship. One soldier, who looks to be in command, addresses the crowd. Because we’re at the back of the throng, we can’t hear a word.
“My kingdom for a megaphone,” Nico says, looking out over the crowd.
Soon enough, the commander’s words drift back to us in a series of comments passed from congregants nearest the action to the rows behind them. By the time the content of the speech reaches our section of the crowd, I’m left wondering if this is just a high-stakes version of the telephone game.
“What news, sir?
” Nico asks one man dressed in a mishmash of clothing styles. I’ve seen frontiersmen before and with his eclectic style choices of buckskins and furs, he certainly fits the bill.
He also smells like he’s been camping for the last millennia and is dire need of a good washing.
“Pirates.” The man replies, in Spanish, as he jerks a thumb at the burning ship. “Them and the sorry fuckers in Dante’s Inferno.”
“How many people were saved from the ship before it caught fire?” I ask. My stomach knots. Papa didn’t talk about it in front of me, but I’d once overheard his account of being a helpless eyewitness to another ship burning into the sea. He talked of men screaming and jumping overboard hoping to escape death, but instead were swamped by a churning sea that swallowed them down.
Memories of losing Maman at sea wash over me. I feel the swell of the waves battering the ship’s hull and the biting cold of the North Atlantic sea. I shudder.
The frontiersman laughs like I’ve asked the most ridiculous question. “Saved? That’s the punishment for their crimes: burning with their ships. ’Tis a warning for all pirates that may follow that their brand of skullduggery will meet swift and merciless justice in Saint John. There are handsome rewards when scum like them are brought to the garrison. I’d wager whoever turned them in can now feed their family like kings for at least the next month.”
Given that my current profession is a peg leg and pet parrot away from those miserable bastards—though it’s a few hundred light years ahead of these wood vessels, I’ve got a ship, too—my heart skips a beat in terrified empathy.
“Is everyone in town here?” Nico asks. “This is the largest crowd at an execution I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s obligatory,” Frontiersman says with a grim smile. He nods toward the sentries posted behind us. A line of soldiers stretches from one end of the docks to the other. “The garrison commanders like to remind us regular folk not to put a toe very far outside the lines.”