Twin Speex: Time Traitors Book II (34 page)

Against one wall, four cots were situated in a square formation. Each held the small figure of a Feralon. Stripped of their black, hooded cloak, the creatures looked like nothing more than children, unnervingly mature children, but children nonetheless. Circlets of steel were bolted onto their heads and several tubes inserted under their skin ran to a machine. A large metal ring was situated against one of the arched windows. That window had no glass and stood open to the chill night air. A false step and one would be sent plunging to a grisly death hundreds of feet below.

The machine resembled an old-fashioned wall computer, so full of cogs, dials, and wires as to be incomprehensible to the casual observer. On closer inspection, it was clear that it had been built atop another machine that sat upon two long, broad pedestals. Crowning it was a massive light bulb-like object, within which coiled filaments glowed and sparked.

Knightly Davis straightened up from tightening a metal knob on one of the halos. He ran his hand along a tube leading from the Feralon’s head to the machine. Working out a kink here and there, he assured himself that the pinkish liquid was flowing smoothly along the tube.

He had discovered the Feralon by accident after their initial jump to the future. Their trip was to be temporary, a way to get more advanced technology to refine the Temporatus and plot their next move. But his companion had suffered terribly from time distortion sickness, and had refused to make another jump.

Davis had been forced to find a less disruptive way to time travel. His first attempt at creating a wormhole had actually trapped a Feralon, and he had used it to trap more. They had proved to be a powerful resource. Not only did they stabilize the wormhole, but also alerted him to the time phases. With the development of the chromaticon, he was able to give the others that same ability. At least until they were able to stabilize this timeline and make it permanent.

He looked over at the woman with his washed-out blue eyes incapable of reflecting light. He could tell that she was tired. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, with little fine lines radiating out from the corners. She had used the wormhole almost every day since he had discovered Odell’s location, and her thirst for retribution was clearly taking its toll.

She kept her plotting a secret, even from him. Her frame had grown gaunt, and he often heard her whispering obsessively to herself. This time she would be gone for a few days, and he only hoped that her health and sanity would not desert her.

But it wasn’t his business to judge her. It was his business to make sure there was a world, her world, to come back to. It was what his patron had always wanted.

He merely said, “We are ready.”

The woman glanced up and then down again at the little Feralon, brushing with long, slender fingers a strand of black hair back from its forehead. A fleeting expression of compassion flashed across her face and was gone, replaced by a look of utter indifference. She straightened and walked over to the window. She looked down at the chromaticon on her wrist and set about the intricate process of synchronizing it with the machine.

“I’ll need several days,” she said impassively, “Do you think they will last that long?”

He nodded, dispassionately adjusting various wires and dials. “Yes. I’ve become much better at calculating and managing the resource.”

“Good, because we will need a few more before this is done.”

“You needn’t worry. The traps have proved very effective. We should have plenty,” he reassured her.

She buttoned up her black greatcoat so it fit more snuggly around her body and coiled her hair on top of her head before pulling an old slouch hat over the blond curls.

She looked around her and finally asked, “Goggles?”

He handed her what looked to be a pair of thick spectacles, and she secured them on her face with the wire earpieces. She pulled on leather gloves and said matter-of-factly, “I’m ready. Fire it up.”

Knightly Davis flipped a lever, and the fragile bodies of the Feralon jolted as a strong current of electricity coursed through them. A stream of intense light projected out from the machine onto the metal ring and through the glassless window.

The woman looked back one last time at her companion before stepping through the ring and disappearing.

*

Odette felt it before any of the others, a vise tightening around her head. The pain forced her from in between dimensions to materialize upon a beach. She rubbed her temples and breathed deeply the richly oxygenated air. The tide was at its lowest ebb, and the white sand beach stretched out, wide and deserted. Sandstone cliffs shone pink and yellow in the setting sun.

The pain quickly subsided, and she stood watching a line of pelicans fly low over the blue-green waves. A foamy rush of cold Pacific water lapped over her toes, and she lifted her skirts to register with mild surprise her bare feet.

“It happened again.” Ambrosius stood beside her and followed her line of sight out to the horizon. “How many times is it now?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, “Too many to count.”

Odette looked around her and noted the presence of the other
Liberi
. The group consisted of only a few of their numbers, the ones who had been with her and Ambrosius when it had occurred. From past incidents, she knew that every
Liberi
had felt the pain and been forced from the in between to the material plane. It was fortunate they had appeared on an empty beach. They were not always so lucky, having popped up on a city sidewalk and, once, on the wing of an airplane.

“Can no one really find from where these disturbances are originating?” She sighed more to herself than anyone else.

“Our investigations have led nowhere,” he replied stoically.

She nodded absently, then turned from the ocean to look at the others now crowding around them. She could feel their minds, thoughts questing out in wordless form. It had become second nature now, interpreting their feelings. Odette needed no real fluency, however, to grasp the overriding frustration that coursed through the group, a frustration she shared.

“They have hidden it well,” she admitted, although she had no idea who “they” were or what “it” was, just the search, the endless search for this new and most grievous assault upon the timeline.

“I believe it is the randomness which obscures its origins,” Ambrosius mused. “There is no pattern, nothing to follow.”

She stood for a breathless moment, letting the implications of his words sink in.

“What can we do?” she asked wearily.

He looked out at the far horizon and down the coastline where the blue Pacific met the ragged cliffs.

“Keep looking,” he finally answered.

She said nothing more but cast her mind out, spreading the molecules of her body and disappearing from sight.

Twenty-Five

JON SINCLAIR STOOD in the parlor of Benjamin Franklin’s elegant and civilized abode. In his buckskins and boots, he seemed as exotically out of place among the delicately carved and cushioned furnishings as he was supremely confident in his bearing. His careful and fluid movements reminded Odell of a wolf stalking the edge of a wood, his pacing steps brought him to stand before the fireplace, a wary eye on the proceedings.

With him was an older man of indeterminate age, perhaps in his mid to late thirties. He was very dark complexioned, almost as dark as Ava. Odell knew that this was for good reason. For Joseph Louis Cook, or “Colonel Louis” as he was known to his troops, was the son of a black father and Abenaki mother. Cook himself had been raised in the Mohawk community and was a staunch supporter of the colonial cause.

Odell knew this only because Ava had told him. She admitted to a limited knowledge of early American history except when it came to minorities and women. They were the only people in that room who knew that the rank of Lieutenant Colonel would officially be bestowed upon Joseph Cook by the Continental Congress, making him the highest ranking person of both African and Native American descent in the Revolutionary Army.

He was a striking figure. Odell could see that he was lean and hardened by the months spent with General Benedict Arnold’s army traversing the Canadian wilderness on their ill-fated mission to drive the British out of Québec City. He sat in an armchair across from Benjamin Franklin. While he wore the same buckskin trousers as Jon Sinclair, he topped his off with a crisp linen shirt, over which he had buttoned a dark blue and very well-tailored waistcoat. A rakishly tied white cravat complimented the ensemble and set off his dark skin to startling advantage.

“I had expected to meet you in New York.” Benjamin Franklin nodded graciously to his guest. “It is good of you to save me the journey.”

Joseph Cook nodded as well, but briskly, precisely. “Not at all, Doctor Franklin. Jon, Mister Sinclair, suggested our meeting would elicit less notice if I came to you.”

Benjamin Franklin cocked an eyebrow at the tall young native standing next to the fireplace. “Wise advice. I am closely monitored. My leaving Philadelphia would definitely be considered an event, so to speak.”

Odell observed the two men seated in armchairs slightly turned toward each other and had the sensation of watching the president meeting with a world leader in the Oval Office. He wondered if it had always been thus, the bodies turned in polite, yet peripheral positions, each man offering subdued compliments, hands shaken. But instead of a bank of cameras situated in front of them recording this cordial exchange, there was only a fireplace and Jon Sinclair’s muscular frame leaning against the mantel.

The other occupants of the room were arranged in varying degrees of social station behind them. He and Gabriel seated on a sofa against the wall, while the wooden chair upon which Ava perched was pushed up against the closed parlor doors at the very back of the room.

He and Ava exchanged a quick glance; her confusion at being included in this meeting was evident. Since Independence Hall, Odell had been aware of the barely discernible prodding of Benjamin Franklin on the outer borders of her life. He knew the old man was up to something, and that this something involved Ava. It was the only explanation for her inclusion in certain important gatherings and events.

She had been at the farmhouse of Franklin’s abolitionist friends when they plotted the network of supply stations and escape routes that would be necessary for an effective incursion into the southern colonies. She had volunteered to be part of the initial group to scout out possible allies and deliver information and arms to freemen and slaves alike. It was a gesture to which both he and Franklin objected. She had acquiesced to their concerns, Odell’s for her safety, Doctor Franklin’s for reasons of his own. Ava had known that her chances of joining Hugh and his band of reconnaissance operatives were slim. Hugh had barely withstood Gabriel’s objections, but had finally won out by reminding him that choice was the essence of freedom, and he was a free man.

Sitting now in Franklin’s Philadelphia parlor, with Hugh barely a week gone on his mission, Odell had the dubious satisfaction of seeing his plans begin to congeal. He thought of the enormous conceit of anyone who proposed to change the course of history, but he knew the American Revolution to be an imperfect effort, one that had left its most noble elements open to destruction over two hundred years later. Still, he could feel a cold sweat pool beneath his collar and the palms of his hands become clammy as he contemplated the audacity of his scheme.

“Joseph Brant.”

Odell’s thoughts were recalled to the present at the pronouncement of that name. He looked over at Ava, who had straightened a bit in her seat at its mention.

“He is in England as we speak,” Joseph Cook practically sneered. “It is my information that he intends to seek the King’s intervention in Mohawk land grievances. This, in exchange for our participation as British allies in the coming war, of course.”

“Can he do that?” Franklin was quick to respond, “Can he speak for the Six Nations?”

Sinclair stiffened contemptuously. “No
one
man speaks for the Nation. Brant is vain—”

Cook held up a hand, abruptly stopping this loose speech. He looked shrewdly back at Benjamin Franklin. “Brant takes much upon himself, but he is well-respected and has many supporters. There are those who believe the colonists to be our biggest threat. They would need strong assurances to make an alliance with the Americans.”

“And I am prepared to make those assurances,” Franklin replied matter-of-factly.

“You are but
one
man,” Cook countered with a smile.

“Naturally, there will be a committee process.” Benjamin Franklin looked intently at his guest. “It will not be easy. Building a new nation is not an easy task, but it is one in which I ask your people to join us.”

Cook sat back and furrowed his brow. “One nation?”

Odell’s body tensed, and he leaned forward, astonished at Franklin’s proposal. Certainly one nation, a mixed nation of free people, was to be the final product. But he suspected it would be the work of decades, a gradual process enshrined in some manner within the constitution. He had thought of the myriad ways the words of this august document could be worked to lead its people down the path of inclusiveness. He had discussed it often with Gabriel, but never with Franklin. Odell smiled tightly. That the old trickster was one or, more likely, several steps ahead of him should not have come as a surprise.

Jon Sinclair pushed away from the mantel and strode over to stand before Doctor Franklin. “You want the Six Nations to join with the colonists in creating this new country?” He asked, not bothering to hide the amazement in his voice.

“Yes, exactly,” Franklin replied crisply, “as well, the freed black man.”

They looked at him, puzzled.

“No slavery,” Franklin explained succinctly, “of any sort.”