Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(8)

Morrisey detested that label. Though he held a score of patents and had created the Fast Forward software that powered the time immersion industry, he didn’t consider himself a genius. He just paid attention, noting things that others missed. Like this room, for example. It was decorated in what Miss Lassiter might call Corporate Dull. No elegant artwork on the walls, tatami mats on the floor or a waterfall gracing a corner. In Morrisey’s eyes, the room had no soul. It mirrored its owners.

Most of that was the fault of the current chairman, Marvin Davies, a sixty-something career politico with a penchant for bad haircuts. If they could manipulate DNA to create the perfect politician, Davies would be the result. He had little to no knowledge of time travel, which set the standard for the other five members of the board. M.A. Fletcher, the one board member who actually knew something of the industry, was noticeably absent. That was the most striking change since Morrisey was last here.

First came the warm, caring approach. They’d offered him tea served by a very attractive young Asian woman. He’d taken the tea and ignored the physical bait, irritated they knew which buttons to push.

Then they’d asked him a myriad of questions, all the while apologizing for wasting his valuable time. Just a few more, they’d said, and then you can get back to the strenuous work of managing TEM Enterprises.



When Morrisey hadn’t provided the answers they desired, a nod came from Davies. The gloves were quickly tossed aside.

“Defoe? Where is he?” one of the board members demanded.

“I have no idea,” Morrisey replied, his clipped British accent providing a civilized contrast to those around him.

It was a bold lie. Harter Defoe, his partner in TEM Enterprises and the world’s first time traveler, was currently recuperating in Morrisey’s private quarters. He would stay there until his bullet wound healed, or he was discovered. With a Reasonable Force Warrant in effect Harter was definitely a wanted man, though TPB insisted it was only to protect Time Rover One, as he was called.

Chairman Davies stirred to life. “Why did you allow Lassiter to transfer to 1888 against our orders?”

“She returned to finish the job.” And to fulfill her bargain with the Government. They’d been threatening a decade-long prison term if she didn’t dance to their tune.

In Morrisey’s opinion, her illegal actions were humanitarian—smuggling tomato seeds to the Off-Gridders, those who lived outside of society. Her lawbreaking had kept a number of them from starvation. He thought she deserved a medal, not ten years in a jail cell.

But that wasn’t the only sword hanging over her head.

“Lassiter’s latest TPB hearing resulted in a sentence, Mr. Morrisey.” Davies tapped the holo-keyboard on the tabletop in front of him. “Let’s see—six months’ incarceration, mandatory treatment for her behavioral problems, and revocation of her Time Immersion license, all for violating time directives.”

“Returning my nephew’s ashes from 1888 is hardly a crime,” Morrisey replied. She’d risked her life and her career to bring Chris home to his family. It’s why Morrisey had gone out on a limb for her.

And shall continue to do so.

“She was specifically ordered not to. Lassiter has a long history of flaunting the rules.” Davies looked up. “By letting her return to 1888, you helped a fugitive escape.”



“Escape?” Morrisey replied. “No indeed. She will return once she’s finished her tasks.” Another falsehood. At least he hoped it was.

“Her Open Force Warrant is still in effect,” Davies announced.

“I am aware of that.” He was still incensed that TPB would issue such an abomination in the first place. An OFW was a no-holds-barred retrieval. As long as the fugitive returned to 2057, it didn’t matter in what shape: alive or dead. If Jacynda had to stay in the time stream to avoid a grave, Morrisey would see to it.

“Did the Government have something to do with this?” Davies quizzed.

Dodging the question, Morrisey replied, “Miss Lassiter returned to the nineteenth century because of the disconnect between 1888’s recorded history and what was happening in real time. That’s a Rover’s job, gentlemen. No one knows ’88 as well as she does.”

After a quick glance toward the other members of the board, Davies shifted in his seat. “We know about the disconnect. It’s not a major concern, at least not so important as to allow a fugitive to run amok in the time stream.”

Not a major concern? That’s not what they’d been saying awhile back. “The disconnect is more pronounced than you may realize,” Morrisey hedged, testing the waters.

“Not according to our engineers,” Davies shot back. “They assure me it will adjust once Lassiter is no longer in the time period.”

That was a new one: a Rover destabilizing the time stream. They had to work extra hard to come up with that.

Davies leaned over the table, adopting a let’s-be-reasonable expression. “Come now, Mr. Morrisey. I respect your concern for an employee, but this Rover has gone too far. After she returned to 1888, she assaulted one of our contract employees. She is out of control.”

“That is a matter open for debate.”

“According to Copeland’s report, he was trying to execute the Open Force Warrant issued against her.”