Time Trapped (8 page)

October 4, 2061, 7:31
P.M.

The Compound
SoHo, New Beijing (formerly New York City)

I
land on the ground of the alley beside the Compound. When I'm able to turn my head, I see Razor sitting beside me, staring at her hands.

“It's only time freeze. You'll be able to move them in a moment,” I say helpfully.

“I'm crippled!” she wails. “I'm suing you for all you got, Jack. These hands are the tools of my trade, man!”

I could mention to her that suing me is a hopeless proposition and that even if she won, my only assets in this world consist of twenty-three dollars and a driftwood carving that I left in 1968. But that would be cruel.

“Try moving them now.”

She flexes her fingers and then moves her arms slowly.

“You're lucky,” she growls.

I get up and brush myself off. “C'mon. We've got an appointment.”

She stands up and looks around. Admittedly there's not much to see: a couple of brick walls and a fire escape. Even so, she looks dazed and confused, which is perfect. If only she can hold that expression until I turn her in to Uncle.

“How did you do that?” she says.

“I didn't do anything,” I say. “You're the one who said the magic word.”

“Where are we?”

“I said I was taking you to New York City. This is it. Except they're calling it New Beijing these days, on account of the Great Friendship. But that's just political stuff. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Where's the ship?”

It's a logical question. Deserving of a logical answer.

“The ship is still at sea,” I say.

“So how'd you do it?” asks Razor. “And don't give me that ‘it's magic' crap. And where's my other twenty?”

Which question to answer first? “You get your other twenty when we get where we're going,” I tell her. “As to how I did it, it has to do with an implant near my right wrist. It can be programmed for any date up to the present. All I have to do is tap my wrist a couple of times and, presto, I'm there.”

“Are you sayin' you're a time traveler?”

I smile and nod.

“That's crazy talk. Time travel is strictly science fiction crap.”

“I suppose you're right.” I switch to a whisper. “If I were you, though, I'd keep that thought to myself. Some of the people you're about to meet really believe in it.”

We climb the short flight of steps to the front entrance of the Compound.

“Halt—who goes there?” says a voice as soon as we're inside.

There's a holo-screen above and to our left. Phoebe's persona is wearing a suit of blue armor and carrying a spear.

I sigh. “Hello, Phoebe. It's me, Caleb . . . and a new recruit.”

“Some recruit. Looks like she could use a little meat on her.”

“Screw off,” Razor says.

“Oohh. A feisty one!” Phoebe says.

We don't have time to play, so I begin to walk past the screen. And smack right into a plate glass wall.

“Ouch. When did that get put in?” I ask.

“Yesterday. Do you like it? It's completely retractable . . . only by me, that is. It gives me a chance to spend some quality time with my visitors. Now, what medieval game should we all play?”

“Phoebe, we don't have time for games. Uncle's expecting us.”

“Of course he is, and of course you don't. But I'm dying for a game of fox and geese.” The screen image changes to a board with thirty-three holes for pegs arranged in a cross. “Who wants to be the fox?” she calls out in a singsong voice.

“Please.” I'm trying to keep my tone even. “I've got to report in.”

“All right, I'll be the fox. You two are the geese. The geese go first. Your move, girlie.”

Razor has a glint in her eye.

Quick as a wink, she reaches into her pocket, withdraws a good-sized stone, cocks her arm back and lets it fly. It bounces off the screen without damaging it and falls to the floor.

“Screw you,” Razor says.

A moment of silence follows, which is actually a record for Phoebe. The game board disappears, and Phoebe's knight-in-armor persona comes back on. “Let's see,” she says, studying a scroll. “I was right. The rules say that any player who throws a stone at the fox loses a turn. Sorry, girlie. Caleb, your turn.”

“Phoebe, how long are you going to keep us here?” I ask.

“That depends,” she says. “Usually I'm able to win in about seventeen minutes. But this one could take a bit longer on account of her.” She points a gauntlet at Razor.

“Go piss in a junkyard.”

“See what I mean?”

“Can't we play something that doesn't take so long?” I ask. “I've really got to get in to see Uncle.”

A long silence follows. Then Phoebe sighs. “All right. We'll play Name That Dead Rock Band and Album. But just so you know, I'm saving this game for later.”

Then she begins to whistle, softly at first but then gaining power. I have no idea what the song is. Still, I've got to try.

“The Rolling Stones, ‘Paint It Black,'” I say, taking a flier. Phoebe's a big Stones fan. And they've been dead for a good thirty years, which means they qualify.

“Hah,” says Phoebe. “Not even close. Try again.”

“I give up,” I say.

“You can't give up.”

“Yes I can. And I do.”

“All right, spoilsport. Do you want to guess, short stuff?”

“Jethro Tull, ‘Thick as a Brick,'” Razor says, and a wounded cry comes from the screen.

The glass door slides open, and we step through.

“Impressive,” I say.

“Yeah, I know. Like I said, Jack. Razor is sharp.”

“Okay,” I say, changing my tone to serious. “From here on in, act like I kidnapped you.”

“Gimme my twenty bucks first.”

Sighing, I fork over my last twenty.

“Good,” she says, smiling. “Now, grab my arm.”

Luca is waiting at the entrance to the Yard. A line of recruits is being marched out and I don't recognize any of them or their trainers. After they leave, only three dazed kids in pajamas remain in the Yard. These must be fresh off the ship. One, a boy, is crying.

“You're cutting it close,” Luca says when we start to go in.

He's right. I didn't plan on it taking so long to get past Phoebe.

“She's like a little tiger, this one,” I say, tightening my grip on Razor.

Right on cue, she bares her teeth and swipes at one of my arms with her long nails. She connects, drawing blood. Ouch. Did she really have to go that far?

Luca grabs her and shoves her into the Yard with the others.

“Go to the Viewing Room, Caleb. Everyone else is already there.”

I take a last look at Razor. She flashes a smile at me, and I feel a pang of guilt. Sure, she agreed to come, but I didn't exactly tell her the whole truth of what goes on here. Still, I got her off the ship like she wanted. Who knows how long they would have kept her in that cell? Probably until the end of the cruise. And then what?

As far as I know, she's got no family, so they'd probably hand her over to some child welfare department who would stick her in a foster home in Scotland that she'd run away from anyway. Instead, thanks to me, she's in America, the land of opportunity. If she wants to make a break for it now, Uncle might not even bother going after her, not with all the other new recruits he's got. Yeah, looking at it that way, I don't feel so bad.

In the Viewing Room, everyone is seated on chairs, gazing through the two-way mirror at today's catch. The Yard is much as I remember it: a huge room with a rough concrete floor. Except that it looks darker and dirtier than I recall. The new recruits are now all huddled in a corner.

“Caleb,” Uncle says, “you are late.”

“Sorry, Uncle.”

I snatch a glance at Abbie. She's sitting near the back, next to Frank. Our eyes connect. I don't dare mindspeak to her right now. Someone is bound to intercept.

“Frank,” Uncle says, “why don't you begin. Tell everyone about your snatch.”

Frank stands and struts to the front of the room. He has a variety of different walking styles, none of which I like. This one, which I call his Harvard Strut, is one of my least favorites.

He takes ahold of a pointer and angles it on the two-way mirror. Green light tracers show a path directly to a young boy sitting with his knees to his chest, sobbing.

“That's my catch,” Frank says proudly. “Plucked him right out of his parents' bed. They didn't notice a thing.”

“Excellent,” Uncle says. “Lydia?”

Beaming, Lydia steps forward. For some reason, seeing her happy always depresses me. It's not that she doesn't deserve a little happiness in her life, but when Lydia is happy, it usually means someone else suffered for it.

“Show us your quarry and tell us your story,” Uncle says. I can tell he's enjoying every second of this.

“My quarry,” Lydia says, taking hold of the pointer, “is that girl, over there.” The tracer leads to a short, chubby girl dressed in a two-piece bathing suit that has a green and red anchor design. The girl is wet and shivering.

“She was taking an evening swim with her father. When she did a cannonball into the pool, I quickly dove in after her, grabbed her wrist and timeleaped here, all before she could even come up for air.”

There are a couple of admiring oohs and ahhs. I want to ask Lydia how she managed to stay completely dry through all the cannonballs and dives, but I keep the question to myself.

“Nicely done, Lydia.” Uncle is beaming now. “Abbie, quarry and story, please.”

Abbie steps to the front. Her expression is unreadable. She points to a figure lying curled up on the floor: a boy with curly brown hair and eyeglasses.

Uncle adjusts the audio, and the boy's soft snores can be heard. Frank guffaws.

“I snatched him right from his cabin,” Abbie says. “He was sitting up in bed reading a book, and when I grabbed him, he hardly reacted at all. Just kept on reading. I had to be quiet, though, because one of his parents was in the bathroom.”

Right from his parents' cabin. I could never do that.

“Well done, Abbie,” says Uncle. “And finally, Caleb.”

I take the pointer and aim it at Razor. “The only thing I know about her is that right before I snatched her, she was on her way somewhere with a couple of the ship's crew.”

“Very well,” says Uncle. “It appears that everyone has performed splendidly. And I would go so far as to say that the entire day was a smashing success. Wouldn't you all agree?”

Everyone nods.

I look through the two-way. The kid that was crying before has now settled down and is whimpering softly.

“All right, then. You have all earned a well-deserved rest. Tomorrow morning you will each be assigned two recruits and training will begin in earnest. With that, I bid you good evening.
Oidhche mhath!
” Uncle gives us a little bow.

“
Oidhche mhath,
” we all say, returning the bow.

“Caleb, if I might see you for a moment, please,” Uncle says.

“Certainly, Uncle.” My palms go all clammy.

Everyone leaves, and I'm alone with Uncle. Only one other person makes me as uncomfortable, and he's just Harvard strutted from the room.

“How are you doing, Caleb?” he says. “We really haven't spoken since your . . . return.”

“I'm fine, Uncle,” I lie. My stomach is doing somersaults. Here comes the punishment that I've been expecting.

“You and I have a long history together, don't we?” says Uncle.

I nod. I wish he would get on with things and banish me to the Barrens or cut off my big toe or whatever he's going to do, because the waiting is driving me crazy.

“I imagine you have been wondering why I invited you back to Timeless Treasures after your abrupt and, may I say, rather rude, departure.”

He calls it being invited back. I call it being tackled by a six-foot-five hulking monster.

“I was kind of wondering, Uncle,” I say.

“I invited you to return because, deep down, I know that you and I share similar values, that we both want to do things that are right, moral and true.”

My missing little toe is beginning to itch. What is he getting at?

“You may recall me mentioning recently that mankind would be better off if certain historical wrongs were corrected.”

“Yes, I remember you saying that, Uncle.”

“I now have some ideas on how to bring this to fruition. I am inviting both you and Frank to a private meeting to discuss this further. Are you free at eleven tomorrow morning?”

Am I free? That's a good one. I was free until his goon snatched me and hauled me back here. Now it's fair to say that I'm time trapped. Of course he probably doesn't see it that way, since with my new patch, I can travel to a million different times and places throughout history. It's just that I can't go to the one time and place that matters to me most: 1968 Boston.