Asher's Dilemma (7 page)

“At this point I must say something which will sound incredible to you.” Pausing, he fixed them both with a hard stare. “While all this was happening, I had no inkling of who Minerva was.”

Minerva started. “You mean you had forgotten about me?”

“No, I hadn’t forgotten. I remembered your father, Manchester, the apprenticeship. All that had happened, except for you. You no longer existed.”

She didn’t know what to say. Beside her, she sensed Asher shifting uneasily on his chair. “But that makes no sense.”

“Bear with me, and it will make sense. As I said, you did not exist, Minerva, but the instant I travelled back to this point, you did exist, and I remembered everything—
everything
—about you. There could only be one explanation for this. Someone must have used my contraption to travel back in time and alter history so that—”

“I never grew to adulthood,” Minerva finished for him. The strength of her voice surprised her, reassured her. She was here, she was speaking. Surely she couldn’t
not
exist.

“But who would do such a thing?” Asher fisted his hand on his knee. “And why?”

Quigley shook his head. “I don’t know why, but I’m fairly sure who.”

“Fairly sure? Why aren’t you certain? Surely you must know who used your chronometrical machine!”

With growing frustration Quigley shook his head again. “No, that’s just it. My memories of what happened just prior to all this are jumbled and uncertain, and with every passing day they become more hazy.” He turned towards his double. “This is something I never expected, though I should have. I call this effect the pliability of time. Do you know what I’m referring to?”

“I think so.” Dawning realization broke over Asher’s face. He leaned back in his chair. “The pliability of time. Yes, I see. Oh damn.”

His quiet oath tangled a knot within Minerva’s chest. “Will someone please explain it to me?”

“It’s not that complicated,” Asher said to her. “If someone has travelled back in history to prevent you from growing up and meeting me, then to maintain consistency all traces of your interaction with others must be erased. That is why he—” he nodded towards Quigley, “—had no recollection of you.”

“But I am still here! Why is that?”

“Because the process appears to be haphazard and unpredictable.” Quigley spoke up, his voice harsh before he faltered, “But…it
is
happening.”

“It is?”

“You’ve been suffering from bouts of faintness, haven’t you?”

Minerva caught her breath. “Yes, but only because I haven’t been eating regular meals and—”

“I’ve seen it too,” Quigley said.

“Seen what?”

“I—I’ve seen a kind of mist come over you at times. You—you seem to be disappearing before my very eyes.” Quigley swallowed hard and directed his fraught gaze to his double. “You’ve noticed nothing?”

“No, I can’t say I have.” A deep frown scarred Asher’s brow.

“Confound it!” Quigley wiped the back of his hand across his upper lip. His forehead glowed with perspiration, his thick black hair flopping into his haunted eyes. “If you do not take action,” he said to Asher, “soon Minerva will vanish and so will all your memories of her. Do you understand that? You will utterly forget everything about her.”

Asher jumped to his feet and grabbed his doppelganger by the cravat. “That could never happen.”

Quigley swatted his hand away. “It happened to me. It will happen to you. If you don’t act.” He stabbed his finger at the chronometrical conveyance. “Destroy that damned thing. Forever.”

Chapter Seven

Asher stood rigid, tortured conflict evident in his expression. Compassion for him washed over Minerva. More than anyone she understood what his inventions meant to him. Against the wishes of his family he’d stubbornly pursued his career, and all his accomplishments barely brought grudging acknowledgment from them. And now he was being asked to give up the greatest invention of all, and merely because of her.

She stood and moved to his side. “You don’t have to do this, Asher.”

He swallowed. “Yes, I do.” But the torment was all too obvious in his eyes.

“No, you don’t. I am just a—an aberration in your life. Compared to what you have achieved and will achieve, I am so little.” She pressed her lips together, forced herself to continue. “I’m but a fleeting interval. We shared a brief spurt of happiness, but that’s all. Don’t wipe out all your hard work just because of me.”

His gaze fastened on her. “You don’t appear to know me very well. You’re advising me to put scientific invention before humanity.” His voice grew thick with agitation. “If I did that, I would be nothing more than a monster, a danger to all mankind. I would prove my father right in all his prejudices against science in general and me in particular.”

“Your father doesn’t know you, and he’s not right. And besides, you wouldn’t even remember what you’d done.”

“But my soul would remember, of that I’m convinced.” With a rough movement, he pushed the hair from his eyes. “Quigley is right. I must destroy this machine.”

His pain was hers. She turned to the other man. “Surely there’s another way out of this?” she implored.

“I’m sorry, but this is the only sure solution.”

Minerva bowed her head, unable to witness Asher’s turmoil. How he must privately resent her for forcing him into such a dilemma. He would save her life because he had to, because he was a good man, but afterward he would never be able to look at her without being reminded of his great sacrifice. He could never whole-heartedly love her again.

* * *

Minerva’s withdrawal wounded Asher afresh. It seemed they would always be at odds. Had he not just expressed his deep, abiding love for her by offering to demolish his cherished invention? Yet she turned away from him towards his double. The man who had penned her all those flowery love letters she’d falsely attributed to him. God’s teeth, how his gut wrenched at the thought. When he saw her tremulous gaze on Quigley, his mood darkened even further.

“Let’s get to work, Quigley,” he snapped at the other man. “I suggest we first disconnect the machine from the generator.”

Quigley nodded and followed him across the workshop. There was no need to issue any instructions. They both knew intimately the workings of their invention. Minerva, no doubt sensing the tension between them, returned to her chair.

“Who do you suspect is behind this plot to make Minerva disappear?” Asher asked, tiring of the awkward silence between them.

“I’m not sure if it’s a plot or just a mere accident or by-product.” Quigley wielded his cutters, snipping off the first of countless wires. “But my main suspect is Klaus Schick.”

“Because of his expertise in Riemannian space?”

“You’ve been consulting with him on the algorithms needed to pilot this machine, haven’t you?”

“You know I have,” Asher answered impatiently, “as have you. The man studied under Riemann himself at Göttingen University. He’s an authority on the subject. But I’ve never told him or anyone else what I’ve been building.”

“But he must have gotten some inkling. I don’t trust him at all, especially considering his past.”

Asher nodded in agreement. At Göttingen Schick had been suspected of poisoning a rival mathematician, but there’d been insufficient evidence for the authorities to prosecute him. Nevertheless, he’d been stripped of his professorship and had left Germany under a cloud. Only his mathematical brilliance saved him from total pariahdom.

“Who’s to say he wouldn’t use the machine to travel back in time and try to fix things in his ham-fisted way?” Quigley ripped out a bundle of wires and tossed them aside. “And then there’s Mrs. Nemo.”

Asher didn’t miss the other man’s troubled glance in Minerva’s direction. “Her supposedly late mother. I agree she’s not trustworthy.”

“More than just untrustworthy!” Quigley hissed, then lowered his voice. “In the past two weeks I’ve uncovered disturbing information concerning the woman. She’s an alchemist and herbalist who appears to dabble in the more unpalatable subjects. Last night one of my contacts took me to Whitechapel where I met a pitiful young woman, a prostitute, who swore that two years ago Mrs. Nemo had given her some herbal potion which caused her to abort the child she was carrying.”

Asher paused in his work. “Surely not against her will?”

“Indeed, no. The streetwalker went to Mrs. Nemo voluntarily.”

“Well, then. Perhaps unsavory, but not uncommon, I’m sure.”

“But is it common for the abortionist to make off with the aborted fetus?”

Asher’s head jerked up. “Why on earth would she want that?”

“I have no idea, but that’s not all I’ve discovered,” Quigley grimly continued. “Have you heard of the Perenelle Society?”

“I can’t say I have, no.”

“The society is named after Perenelle Flamel. You must have heard about her.”

Asher wrinkled his face. “Flamel, as in Nicholas Flamel? Devil take it! The Flamels dabbled in nothing more than mystical nonsense and superstition. Dangerous superstition.” Perenelle Flamel had been the wife of Nicholas Flamel, an alchemist from four centuries ago famous for his pursuit of the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life which, according to legend, would grant the drinker immortality. Perenelle, a renowned alchemist herself, was reputed to have assisted her husband in everything he did. “What are the aims of this Perenelle Society?”

“That remains a mystery,” Quigley said. “But Mrs. Nemo has been a member for some years.”

“Hmm, I don’t like the sound of that. The Flamels were nothing more than charlatans pandering to the ignorant masses, but charlatans can be dangerous too.”

“Agreed. It’s one more reason to be on our guard with Mrs. Nemo.”

Asher glanced back at Minerva, observed her listless figure. “I trust you haven’t mentioned any of this to Minerva?”

“As if I would. That woman has caused her enough heartache. Has it struck you that ‘nemo’ is Latin for ‘no one’? A fitting name for such an enigma.”

“Do you think she and Schick colluded to use your chronometrical conveyance?”

Quigley nodded. “It’s possible.”

“The relationship between her and Schick is curious too. Of course she’s his mistress, but what advantage does she get out of the arrangement? He’s neither rich, aristocratic, nor charming. His only reputation is within mathematical circles, and notorious at that.”

“Perhaps he’s wealthier than we think.”

“That could be the only reason.” There was also the matter of Mrs. Nemo’s coquettish advances towards himself, something Asher would never divulge to anyone, and yet another reason to dislike the woman. Asher frowned, suddenly ashamed of the way he was slandering Minerva’s mother. Minerva already had the burden of her less-than-honest father, and now there was the cryptic, degenerate Mrs. Nemo. A surge of protectiveness rose in him. Minerva wouldn’t thank him, but he would do everything in his power to shield her from the poison of her mother. She might initially resent his interference, but perhaps in time she would realize how much she meant to him.

As darkness began to fall, Asher rose to light the oil lamps. Penetrating draughts made the light flicker, and with the generator fallen idle the workshop had begun to cool. He stopped by Minerva. She had fallen asleep in her chair, her head precariously propped up on the heel of her hand. The sight of her wan, slumbering face squeezed his heart. He reached out to touch her hair, but before he could do so the door of the workshop rattled open.

Cheeves, he thought irritably, spinning round. But it wasn’t his butler.

“Good evening,” Mrs. Nemo announced. She had a smirk on her face and a pistol in her hand.

* * *

The sound of the door slamming shut started Minerva awake. She rubbed her eyes. “Mother?”

Her mother stood dressed in a tightly fitted, burgundy velvet jacket and skirt with a modish fanchon-style hat perched upon her immaculate gold hair. The surprise of her appearance took Minerva’s breath away, so it was a moment before she spied the gleaming pistol.

“Mother!”

“I should have known you’d be mixed up in this.” An irked frown skimmed over the older woman’s face. She dropped the small carpet bag she’d been holding. “Are you Mr. Quigley’s mistress then?”

Asher, who’d been standing beside her chair, jumped forward. “What is it you want?”

Mrs. Nemo regarded him then swung her gaze to Quigley who stood next to the chronometrical conveyance, still holding a pair of cutters. “Well! This is most intriguing.” Her eyebrows shot up and her breast rose and fell with unconcealed excitement. “Good evening, Mr. Quigley. And which one are you? The present or the future Asher Quigley?”

Quigley had turned white to the bone. “You!” he rejoined through clenched teeth. “And where is Schick?”

“I neither know nor care. His usefulness to me is finished now.” She flourished the gun towards him. “Step aside, Mr. Quigley, whichever one you are. You’re in my way.”

Quigley hesitated, but in the face of the gun he had no choice. He stepped away from the machine. With her boneless fluidity, Mrs. Nemo glided forward to stroke the outer shell. “Ah, how marvelous. Finally I can touch it.”

“You know what it is?” Asher asked.

“Of course. I have my spies. I knew you were building something important, especially when you consulted with Klaus, but he wouldn’t divulge anything to me, the damned sausage-eater. But then you wanted to use the analytical machine. I couldn’t believe my luck. God, to think of all the years I wasted with that German. But no matter.” She patted one of the promethium magnets. “I have everything I need now.”

“You can’t be serious,” Asher broke in. His fists clenched and unclenched. “The machine is highly dangerous. You will die if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“True enough, but then I do know what I’m doing.” From the inside of her jacket she drew out a thin spool of white paper on which were printed some numbers and held it aloft from the tips of her varnished fingers. “See, I have the results of your calculations right here.”

“That’s impossible. I only gave you the algorithms yesterday.”

Mrs. Nemo cocked her head to one side. “But I am a brilliant programmer. And how fortuitous to have proof that your contraption works.” She glanced between the two men with avid interest. “I never would have believed it, but here you are—identical copies of each other. How lovely. How absolutely wonderful.” She secreted the ribbon of paper away and pulled out a set of iron manacles which she tossed towards Quigley. “Here, you, my good man. Shackle your twin to that wooden post over there, and mind you do it properly. I’ll check your handiwork.” When Quigley just continued to glower at her, she raised the pistol higher. “I’m warning you, Mr. Quigley. I’m a crack shot, and I’m not afraid to pull the trigger.”

The steadiness of her grip on the pistol appeared to convince him. He secured the manacles around Asher’s wrists and bound him to a stout iron ring driven into the wooden post which supported a roof beam.

“Why are you doing this?” Minerva burst out. “Why do you want this machine so much?”

“You could never understand,” Mrs. Nemo replied dismissively. She inspected Asher’s bonds before returning to the other man. “And now you will reconnect the electrical supply.”

Quigley clamped his jaw, resistance accentuating every bone in his face. “No. I won’t do that. Not even with a gun pointed at me.”

“Oh no? And what about if the gun were pointed elsewhere?” Slowly Mrs. Nemo shifted her arm towards Minerva. “Like there, for instance. Would that change your mind?”

A white ring appeared around his mouth. “You wouldn’t! Your own daughter?”

“Would you like to test that theory?”

The black hole of the pistol barrel sucked the air from Minerva’s lungs until her chest ached. Dark spots began to cloud her vision again.

“Quigley, for God’s sakes do as she says,” Asher exclaimed from the wooden post, rattling his manacles.

With an explosive expletive, the other man picked up his tools and began to repair the wires he’d snipped only a few minutes ago.

Mrs. Nemo gestured impatiently towards Minerva. “Come here, girl.”

Minerva dragged her feet forward, aversion mounting with each step. This was her own mother, this ruthless woman with her chilling blue eyes and murderous smile. As she drew closer, the cloying scent of tuberose perfume turned her stomach.

She would not show any weakness. Battling the faintness which threatened to overwhelm her, Minerva drew herself up. “So you would really harm me, your own flesh and blood?”

Irritation, not shame, flashed through Mrs. Nemo’s eyes. “Don’t presume to judge me until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.”