Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(47)

As Defoe knelt in discomfort, awaiting the transfer, Morrisey’s slender fingers tapped across the keyboard. Their eyes met. “Find the man who did that to Miss Lassiter and make him pay.”

Defoe smiled. His friend might be a software wizard, but he had the heart of a samurai. “You got it, Theo.”

Morrisey triggered the time pod door. A moment later, Harter Defoe, the greatest of all Time Rovers, vanished into the past.

As if on cue, Fulham appeared at the chronsole room door.

“Representatives of the Time Protocol Board have arrived. They know of Miss Lassiter’s return. They’ve brought two security guards with them to arrest her.”

He’d expected this: the interface that sent Jacynda home was traceable.

“I wonder what took them so long.”

Like the last time they’d visited the compound, the Time Protocol Board’s minions were still using the aliases Smith and Jones. That continuing discourtesy had riled Fulham, especially since he’d been unable to ascertain their real names. Then there’d been a tussle about the security guards they’d brought along.

“No weapons inside. That’s the rule,” Fulham repeated.

“The guards won’t be unarmed,” Smith replied.

“Then they stay here, in reception.”

“We have an order from—”

“Take it or leave it, gentlemen,” Fulham barked.

Watching the verbal fireworks via a Vid monitor in his office, Morrisey cracked a smile. Mr. Fulham, like most clerks of the legal variety, possessed a nearly inexhaustible amount of patience. When it was gone, things got intense.

Smith finally acquiesced. It was either that or barge into the compound with armed guards. That faux pas would end up on the Vid-Net News—Fulham would see to that.

By the time they convened in the conference room, everyone was on edge. Smith and Jones parked themselves in the chairs at the end of the conference table, the two guards standing behind them, beefy arms crossed. A nano-drive skidded across the length of the table in Morrisey’s direction. He trapped it under his palm without looking down.



“That’s an Open Force Warrant for Miss Lassiter’s arrest,” Smith said. “We’re here to execute it.”

“I am aware of the conditions of an Open Force Warrant, Mr. Smith,” Morrisey replied, keeping his voice level. “Miss Lassiter is in no condition to travel.”

“On what basis do you make that claim?”

“She has sustained severe psychological trauma with resultant amnesia,” he said, ensuring the diagnosis sounded as clinically cold as possible. The detachment was for their benefit. Fury still churned in his gut.

“If that is the case, our doctors will treat her,” Jones replied.

“She is my employee, and will remain in my care.” He couldn’t do much for Jacynda’s damaged mind, but at least he could keep these jackals from removing her from the compound. Once she entered the prison system, he might never get her free.

“She has a cell waiting for her, Mr. Morrisey. She is a threat to—”

“Miss Lassiter is no longer a threat to anyone, except herself. She has the mind of a child, gentlemen.”

He retaliated with his own nano-drive, moving at lightning speed across the desktop. Jones tried to catch it, but missed. It tumbled into his lap.

“That’s her medical report. Ask Chairman Davies how a discredited twenty-first century technology can be used as a weapon in the nineteenth. I’ll be awaiting his answer.”

He was out the door despite their vigorous protests. He needed time to get things squared away, and challenging TPB head on was the best way to slow the beast.

His seething resentment banked when he entered her room. Jacynda was asleep, curled up like a lost waif, with no notion that the world was full of people who wanted to harm her.



Ralph Hamilton, her best friend, sat near the bed.

Morrisey cleared his throat. “How is she?”

Hamilton turned the Thera-Bed’s monitor in his direction. Her vital signs were good, her EEG still registering as aberrant. The physician had added another parameter: mental age. She was currently at just over five years old.

“So what the hell happened to her?” Hamilton asked, voice lowered to keep from waking his friend.

“What I am about to tell you must go no further, do you understand?”

There was a brusque nod. Morrisey explained as best he could, mindful of the years of friendship that stood between Hamilton and woman in the bed. As he spoke, the expression on the chron operator’s face went from shock to righteous anger.

Hamilton leapt to his feet. “Dammit, this is your fault,” he hissed, pointing an accusing finger. “You shouldn’t have let her go back the last time. You knew they were trying to kill her.”

“It was her decision.”

“The hell it was. You could have ordered her to stand down, but you didn’t. It’s all your fault.” Hamilton stormed out of the room.

You may well be right.

The chair still radiated warmth from the man’s lengthy vigil. Now it was his turn.

~??~??~??~



Sunday, 28 October, 1888

New York City

Harter Defoe took another deep whiff. Every place has its own particular scent, and this one didn’t match with his desired destination. He’d asked Theo to send him a few blocks away from Adelaide Winston’s house where he intended to throw himself on her mercy while he healed. And yet he smelled fish. His ears picked up the sound of something motorized, grinding away on a heavy load. That didn’t track. Adelaide’s posh neighborhood was noticeably absent of winches. He glanced down at the interface. It was blank. That was odd. He gave it a shake. Nothing changed.