Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(92)

“Morrisey thinks someone else had already stirred things up, and I just gave it a bit more oomph.”

“Very likely. You play God, and things happen.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but bit her tongue as the server approached with a tray. Defoe clicked the interface shut and moved it out of the way.



“There ya are, sir. Nice and hot. The cakes are fresh. I bake them myself,” she said.

“Thank you, madam.”

Cynda performed the honors, doling out their refreshments as Defoe opened the interface and replaced it on the table.

“Morrisey said things go very badly for the shifters up the time stream,” she ventured.

Defoe’s smile dimmed. “I’m surprised he told you that. Theo’s usually more discreet.” He grew pensive. “If he trusts you that much...” He nodded to himself, a decision made.

“I met my first Future in 1979. I’d gone there to see one of the old moving pictures, Time After Time.”

“I know that one. H.G. Wells chases Jack the Ripper to 1979 San Francisco to retrieve his time machine. It’s one my favorites.”

“All utter nonsense, of course,” Defoe replied. “Still, it was great fun listening to the audience discuss the possibility of time travel, little knowing that someone from nearly eight decades into the future was sitting among them.”

“I wish I’d done that,” Cynda said wistfully.

“I didn’t pay much attention to the man sitting to my right until we’d left the theater. As we reached the street, he said, “Not quite accurate, is it, Mr. Defoe?”

“That had to spook you,” Cynda said, grinning.

“It did. He said his name was Robert Anderson, and the news he brought was anything but good. He told me what happens to the Transitives once their secret is made public knowledge.” Defoe took a long sip of tea. “Needs brandy,” he grumbled.

“What year was he from?”

“2075. Apparently he and some of the other Futures felt it was time we knew what was coming.”

“Does Guv know this?”

He shook his head. “Anderson said laws are enacted to prevent shifters from passing the ability when they die, keeping them out of sensitive Government jobs.” He frowned. “In the future, Rovers can’t be shifters.”

She dropped her spoon on the table. “Why not?”



“It’s a safety issue, they say. If you can look like anyone, you could mess with history and no one will know.”

“But you’re a shifter,” she said, trying to get a handle on this. “You and Morrisey. You guys invented this technology, and then you’re not safe enough to be part of it?”

He shook his head. “According to Anderson, the Transitives begin to fight back in 2065, going underground. By 2083, another group takes advantage of our distraction and it all goes to hell. Our petty war makes us lose the most important battle: our future.”

“What happens?” she asks.

“He wouldn’t tell me.”

“But you said he was ’075. How would he know—”

“I think he got the word from a Future further up the time stream.”

Cynda huffed. “Great. Like a little bucket brigade of warnings trickling down to us.”

Defoe delivered a disgruntled look at her analogy. Fortunately, the server returned, checking on them. Once the woman was gone, beaming at another one of his compliments, Defoe opened his interface again.

Leaning back in the chair, he said, “Those ahead of us are becoming actively involved in whatever is going on here. I think this time period is critical for them in some way. We were both off-timed for a reason.”

“Why not just tell us Copeland was involved in Chris’ death?” she said, adding more sugar to her tea. “Why not just help us outright? It’s not like it’s going to get any more screwed up.”

Defoe arched an eyebrow as if she were being na?ve. “There’s far more at stake than just Chris’ murder. Some of the Futures want the Transitives’ secret to be revealed much earlier. They feel that if the world knew of them in the late nineteenth century, then the sanctions wouldn’t be put in place, or if they were, they’d be removed by the twenty-first century.”

“That’s overly optimistic.”

He issued a weary sigh. “Well, that’s not our problem. We need to find out what’s happening here, and what it has to do with the explosives. Did Morrisey tell you how the Transitives are organized?”



“Yes,” she said, cutting a piece of cake.

“What do you know, so I don’t have to repeat myself?”

Cynda set the knife aside, sad the food had to wait. It looked yummy. She closed her eyes and visualized the shifters’ organizational tree. It seemed to help if she saw something in her mind before trying to verbalize it.

“The Ascendant is the top dog,” she began. “He has eight killers at his command: the Lead Assassin and the Seven, who follow the Lead’s orders. The Lead is always a Virtual. There are the Twenty who report to the head guy and determine when it is time to replace him. Then there’s The Conclave, which is more for show than anything.”

Only after the fact did she realize why she’d earned herself a frown. His alter ego, Livingston, was a member of The Conclave.