Time Snatchers (25 page)

“Six letters. Insurrection,” a husky voice whispers right in my ear.

“Mutiny,” I say without skipping a beat.

The lights come on, and I rub my sore arms. Nassim gives the tin a quick once-over. Then he reaches past me, closes his office door and claps on some classical music. The music thunders and rolls like waves in a stormy sea. It’s really loud, but Nassim doesn’t look in any hurry to lower the volume.

“What’s going on with you, Caleb?” the big man asks. “You don’t seem yourself lately.”

My mouth goes dry as I make the connection between Nassim’s question and the loud music.

I hesitate. I’ve never talked to Nassim about personal stuff. In fact, I’ve never even had a conversation longer than two minutes with him, period. Then I remember him showing me his scars from the turtle bites. I’d like to trust him. I really would. But what if he goes straight to Uncle with what I say? It’s too risky.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

He stares at me, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say something. Instead he just nods.

As I make a move to leave, he holds up a hand. “Wait a minute. There’s something I want to show you.”

Nassim reaches inside the top drawer of his desk and fishes out a small bottle. Shaking a tiny silver pill from the bottle he says, “Do you know what this is?”

“No,” I say.

“It’s a memory wipe pill,” he says. “Take two of these and, within
a couple of minutes, you won’t remember anything that happened before dinner last night. And I mean
anything
.”

I feel my stomach clench. Why is he showing me this?

He pops the pill back in the bottle and returns it to the drawer. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I get a feeling that there’s a whole other side to Nassim that I don’t know anything about. Glancing at the framed picture on his desk, I wonder how long it’s been since Nassim has seen his own father.

“We’re done here, Caleb. I’ll write up the snatch. Please join the others. We’ll be leaving for the Compound in five minutes.” His voice is flat, expressionless.

I nod and head for the door. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t turn around.

A
lthough I’ve heard Uncle mention the Compound, this is my first visit. Following the others up the front steps, my immediate reaction is that this place will never make it into any New Beijing guidebook. The windows have broken panes, the wooden stairs are cracked and there’s graffiti on the brickwork. And that’s just on the outside.

Like me, Raoul, Lydia and Abbie are staring wide-eyed. Frank, however, doesn’t seem affected, which I take as a sign that he’s been here before, maybe more than once.

Gazing at the building, I’m guessing that, even with all its faults, the place cost Uncle a pretty penny. After all, this is SoHo, not Queens.

I follow the others inside. According to Nassim, a hundred years ago the building was a shoe factory. But according to my nose, it could easily have been yesterday. There’s a big-time smell of leather in a huge room with a gray concrete floor and stout wooden beams crisscrossing a high ceiling. I even see a couple of dusty iron contraptions that I bet were used for making shoes, tucked away in one corner.

We’re all tiptoeing around as if we’re a tour group visiting a church. Nassim hustles us across the factory floor to a small room. As soon as I enter, I get a strong whiff of “eau de foot.” Maybe this
is where they stored the returns. Or maybe the smell is coming from Raoul, who’s standing next to me with one foot half out of his shoe.

The room is bare except for a couple of benches and a large window looking out over the factory floor.

I try to mindpatch something to Abbie, but my access is denied. I can’t believe it. She’s blocking me! She’s never done that before. Ever.

I’m so focused on Abbie’s snub that I jump when Uncle enters the room.

“Good morning, people. I’m so glad that you could all join me,” he says.

As if we had a choice.

It’s clear that Uncle’s been out shopping. His new outfit, a blue and red pinstriped
hanfu
with matching sandals, screams Wall Street meets the Tang dynasty. But if there’s anyone who can pull it off, it’s Uncle. As always, his sword is tucked into his belt.

“For those of you who have not been here before, this building is the new Timeless Treasures training facility,” he says.

I stifle a yawn and sneak a glance at the others. Raoul is looking particularly nervous. Lydia is gazing at her reflection in the glass, and Frank looks bored. I catch Abbie’s eye for a second before she glances away.

“All the recruits live and train here,” continues Uncle. “This is the Viewing Room. It looks out over the Yard, which is the name I’ve given to the large factory floor that you can see out this window. That is where the bulk of the training takes place: classes on conventional thievery, pickpocketing, stealth and the like. The recruits also learn about different cultures and periods from history through
age-appropriate educational holos. But it’s not all about work. We also have an array of sports equipment and games for fun and recreation as well as dress-up days when the recruits can come as their favorite historical figure.”

Fun and recreation. Dress-up days. Memories of my own training days bubble to the surface. Those were good times. I remember soccer games where Uncle played goalie. And I also remember some of my costumes, especially the big hat and long blue and red coat I wore when I was Napoleon. Boy, did Uncle clap when he saw me in that one. These kids have no idea what’s in store for them when they get to be my age. I suppose that’s a good thing, the not knowing. At least they can enjoy what they have now.

“There is a cafeteria/dining hall on the second level,” continues Uncle, “and the third and fourth levels house the recruits’ sleeping quarters. The uppermost floor, five, is where my office is. Any questions so far?”

Lydia’s hand shoots up. No surprise there. In Lydia’s world, the next best thing to looking at herself is hearing herself talk.

“Yes, Lydia?” says Uncle.

“Where does that door lead to?” She’s pointing to a set of copper-colored double doors on the far side of the factory floor.

“Very perceptive,” Uncle answers. “I did not mention those doors, did I? They house an old-fashioned elevator. Back in the days when this was a shoe factory, the elevator was used to transport finished product from the first floor to the top floor where the shoes were boxed and stored until shipping orders were received. The lift only stops on the first and fifth floors. It’s not nearly as swift as the newer models, but speed isn’t everything is it?”

No matter how slowly it goes, any elevator that goes straight to Uncle’s office can’t be good news for the recruits.

“If there are no other questions, let us get on with the show,” says Uncle.

He sure has that right. This is one big show. And judging by the gleam in his eye, it looks like the curtain is about to rise.

“Behold, people,” he announces, “the next generation of time snatchers!”

We all watch through the window as children stream into the Yard, trailed by five men. Adults? Up until now, apart from Uncle and Nassim, there’s never been anyone over thirteen years old working at Timeless Treasures. I didn’t think Uncle trusted adults enough to hire them as trainers. I guess I was wrong.

The children, about two dozen of them by my count, are dressed in bright T-shirts, shorts and spanking new running shoes. Even through the glass, I can hear laughter and shouting—the same noises you would expect to hear at any gathering of five and six-year-olds. They immediately make a beeline for the hockey sticks and tennis balls that have been laid out for them.

I can’t help but stare. Where did they all come from?

Abbie’s got a neutral expression on her face, and Raoul is his usual pale self. But Frank has me worried. He’s standing closest to Uncle and looking extremely smug.

“The children you see have been invited here from centuries past as part of a new project that I call Project Metamorphosis,” says Uncle. “For those of you who are not familiar with the term ‘metamorphosis,’ let me enlighten you. Metamorphosis is commonly used to describe a process involving a noticeable and sudden change in an animal’s body structure. The animal will typically transform into something completely unrecognizable. In the case of the butterfly, the process begins with the egg, then goes on to the larva, pupa and then, finally, the butterfly.

“My friends,” he continues, “just as it is with the butterfly, so it is with Timeless Treasures. The time is now for our metamorphosis.”

He pauses for a moment and adjusts his
hanfu
. My eyes are drawn to the sword tucked inside his belt. The blade looks as sharp as ever.

“There will be two phases to Project Metamorphosis,” Uncle says. “Phase One will be collection. We will be recruiting children from different cultures and centuries to join us. Some but not all of these children will be orphans. After all, why should children from traditional families be denied the same opportunity to enrich their lives?”

Uncle says it like it’s a question, but it’s not. I grind my teeth. It’s bad enough that he’s snatching orphans. But ripping children out of families? It’s just wrong.

As Uncle speaks, I hear a cry and spot a trainer and new recruit off to one side. The boy is reaching for something on the floor: a gleaming metal object. As he does, the trainer slaps his hand and picks the object up. It’s a harmonica. But I don’t get to hear it played, because in the next instant the trainer pockets it.

“This facility,” continues Uncle, “can comfortably house eighty recruits, although with some creativity we should be able to squeeze in another twenty. Just think of it: a hundred time snatchers! It seems a boggling number doesn’t it? That’s progress, my friends. Soon enough these new recruits will be trained and ready to join you, skipping across the centuries and liberating precious items from the past for the enjoyment of our clients.”

Uncle sure has a way with words. He’s the only one I know who can make stealing sound like a public service.

“Phase Two,” he says, “will concern what I call ‘Guided Snatches.’ From time to time, clients have questioned the authenticity of the object that we have procured for them. To address this concern, I will
invite certain select customers to accompany our snatch teams on missions so that they can see the snatch firsthand. What greater proof of authenticity can there be?”

I can’t believe it. No way. Snatches are tough enough without the added complication of being responsible for a time-traveling tourist.

“To be the best,” Uncle continues, adjusting his sash, “we must not be afraid of having big ideas and turning them into reality. We need only to look to history for examples. While I was in the Far East recently, I took a side trip to see the Great Wall of China. What an enormous undertaking! Imagine a wall stretching more than five thousand miles across valleys, mountains and plains. Almost impossible to contemplate, isn’t it? And do you know how it came to be?”

He pauses and I pray he doesn’t pick me to answer. Chinese history isn’t my strong suit.

“I will tell you,” he continues, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “The Great Wall of China started out as the dream of one man, the first emperor of China, Qín Sh
Huáng. That is how great things begin, my friends, with a simple idea. But of course, just as Qín Sh
Huáng had help to make his dream a reality, I too have selected one from among your ranks to help me realize my dream.”