stood and shouted at the top of her lungs, “Wake up, Victoria! Wake up and run.”
Garrick raised his weapon to fire but thought better of it, unwilling to risk damaging the WARP pod. Instead he continued his grim crawl.
The pod began to beep. The complicated series of whoops and whistles was matched by small lights on the fuselage.
Chevie suddenly remembered something from Orange’s time lecture. The tests were pretty successful, he’d said. There was a small number of aberrations, usually on the return trip, but less than one percent, so acceptable in a scientific sense.
Oh, my God, she thought. We haven’t been taking bisphosphonates. I don’t even know what those are. We could come out the other end with monkey parts or dinosaur heads.
But she didn’t say anything to Riley, because her voice had been snatched away by the orange light. She didn’t lay a warning hand on his shoulder either, because her hand was gone, whisked away as though she were made of sand.
I am sand in the wind, she thought.
As am I, replied Riley in her mind.
The last thing to go was their sight, so they completed their dematerialization watching Garrick reach the bottom step and begin his lurching hop across the floor.
He’s going to make it, thought Chevie. We’re not rid of Albert Garrick yet.
She would have closed her eyes and bowed her head, but her head was gone, and now so were her eyes.
The Battering Rams
HALF MOON STREET. LONDON. 1898
Riley felt himself go and initially presumed that the going would be similar to his previous journey through the tunnel of time. It was not.
In fact, this trip was the opposite of his first in almost every way. At the most basic level, he was going back as opposed to traveling forward. Just as a physical journey changed according to a person’s direction, so too did a quantum one. Where he had felt propelled, now he felt somehow suctioned into his own past life.
Riley had heard of primal recollection occurring when a subject was under hypnotism—indeed, Garrick had mesmerized him on occasion—but Riley could never remember anything that had happened while in the trances, probably because Garrick had bolstered his own mesmeric talents by swabbing the boy’s upper lip with an ether-soaked sponge.
But now vignettes from his life played out before him, projected on the shifting surface of the wormhole.
The ginger-haired boy. He is Tom. Ginger Tom, Ma always called him. We are half brothers. I remember now.
Teenage Tom looked down on little Riley, holding out a hand. Come on, brother. I have a penny for lemonade. We will share a bottle.
Tom ran down a beach, and Riley felt himself trot after, following footsteps in the sand. The brothers ran toward a pier, and Riley could hear the plinky-plonk music of a barrel organ.
Brighton. I live here.
Tom turned his head and called over his shoulder. Ma loves ’er bulls-eyes. Shall we bring her a twist?
The scene flickered, and now little Riley was a baby in the arms of a lady, gazing up into her kind, soft face. His mother wore a plain blouse and her hair in braids.
Tom is named for his sadly departed Da, and will be a heartbreaker like him, she said, tickling his chin. But you, my little shillelagh, will carry the name Riley, like your dad. And your Christian name shall be the name of my family, the proudest clan in County Wexford.
Riley would have cried if he could. She was Irish. I remember now, he thought, and, The name? What is my name?
But then the picture changed, and Riley saw his father looming large and warm above him. The similarity of his face to Riley’s own was instantly apparent.
This is a secret, his father was saying. I am only showing this to you because you can’t speak yet and you won’t remember. He opened up his hand, and lying on the palm was a golden shield with letters embossed on its face. And the letters were F, B, I.
Those letters mean I have to protect people. One person in particular. Funny little Mr. Carter. Look, he’s outside waiting.
The infant Riley followed his father’s pointing finger to see a man pacing beyond their front door. His legs flashed past, and all Riley could make out were shining black ankle boots and a horseshoe signet ring.
Riley’s father shook his head. This guy is a pain. A royal pain. He’s trying to weasel out of testifying after all this time. But no matter how much