Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(161)

“You done yet?”

Alastair glowered in response.

Apparently not.

Oblivious, Theo slept through her arrangements. Cynda set his interface, clipped the chain to his wrist and placed it in his hand. Then she wound a bandage around it, tying it off so he wouldn’t lose contact with the watch. No contact, no 2058. Finally, she gave him a kiss, knowing he’d not feel it. The hole in her chest grew wider.

Hopkins knelt next to the bed. “Klein wants you to stay here, make sure everything’s secure. He needs time to settle things down, start proceedings against TPB. If you return now, it’ll just muddy the waters.”

“What about Morrisey?”

“TPB won’t touch him, not in his condition,” Hopkins reassured. “Not once they realize Copeland is to blame for all this.”

Not all of it. “Did Klein say anything about him?”

“No and I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to tip our hand to TPB. I don’t think they can listen in our interface traffic, but you never know.”

She nodded. “I’ll stay here until I get the all clear.”



The young man gently placed a hand on her uninjured arm. “Thanks. Having Copeland out of circulation means a lot me.”

Cynda nodded, too tired to talk. Instead, she rose and moved out of the way as he clicked Theo’s watch shut.

10…9…8

“Let’s go!” he ordered. Hopkins and the three other Guv agents vanished. The transfer effect began to form around Theo. Then he was gone.

I’ll be home soon, now that I have a reason.

“I’ll never grow accustomed to that,” Alastair said, shielding his eyes from the doorway. “How soon will we know if he made it in good shape?”

“Soon.” I hope. She gnawed the inside of her lip raw until her interface lit up.

Now you owe me three beers.

“What does that mean?” Alastair asked, looking over her shoulder.

“It means everything’s going to be fine,” she whispered.

Intermittent sleep, endless side-hops, the chaos of the last twenty-four hours. They all came to collect their bill. It was a big one.

At Alastair’s suggestion, Cynda pulled herself up the stairs to a spare room, tossed her clothes in random directions, then poured cold water into the basin to remove the remaining blood. Once that was completed, she collapsed into the bed. The feather mattress enfolded her like a mother’s arms, and she sighed into its softness. Stuffing her interface under the pillow was her last conscious act.

Her interface woke her, buzzing incessantly until it dragged her out of her zombie-like state. Then it went quiet. It started up again, nagging at her like an electronic spouse.

“What do you want?” she snarled, digging under the pillow. “I’ve done my bit. Go away!”

More buzzing, followed by something that sounded like one of those old British cop cars. The two tones wavered back and forth, sawing away at her nerves.



Cynda hauled herself to the small desk in the room and logged onto GuvNet. As the screen lit up, she groaned and trudged over to the door, locking it and stuffing a sock in the keyhole. Mrs. Butler, bless her soul, might feel inclined to bring her guest some tea at the wrong moment.

The screen erupted into a blur of type. None of it mentioned Theo. Maybe that was a good sign.

Where have you been?

She had no desire to play nice. Who’s this?

Who do you think? Is your interface defective?

Had to be Ralph. Interface fine. Rover isn’t. No sleep.

Suck it up. We got problems.

Is TEM okay?

Healing. Hopkins gave us a full report.

What’s the problem?

The screen lit up. So where is he?

“He” had to mean Copeland. Look under the rocks. I sent him to Guv.

Guv doesn’t have him.

That broke her haze immediately. Transfer at 11:40 or so on 9 November, 1888.

There was a long pause. Too long for good news.

“Come on, guy, this century, will you?” she complained. “I want some more sleep. I’ve earned it.”

“We both have,” her delusion added and then yawned. She leaned back in the chair and started to doze when the response came through.

No go. Transfer diverted.

To where?

Same time, different location.

Anyone else would have panicked. Cynda let out another yawn. The last she’d seen of Copeland, he was in no shape to harm anyone. He wasn’t going to get better overnight, especially not in Victorian London.



Cyn? Ralph prompted.

I’ll look around. “When I’m damn good and ready.” Or they could send Hopkins. Why did it always have to be her?

A series of numbers started flying across the screen.

And that meant? she typed blearily.

Coordinates. It’s where he landed in 1888. Use your interface to pinpoint them.

You can’t tell on your end?

Coordinates still wonky here. Can’t recalibrate until Guv says it’s okay.

Cynda dug around in the room until she could find something to write on, and then made note of the numbers, not quite sure how to store them in the device.

Got them. I’ll be in touch.

TEM says to tell you two words: unfinished business. Whatever that means.