“I have a place in mind,” admitted Ruthven.
Boswell peered at him with amusement. “Does that make you Dean?”
Ruthven winced. “Please don’t.”
“I think,” said Nero, and paused.
As usual he had found himself the high ground, atop a teetering pile of books that did not look structurally sound.
Boswell almost hadn’t invited Nero to this meeting. He and Monterey had to sit on Lovelace for an hour beforehand, to make her promise not to start anything.
If they were going to move forward with this, they had to include everyone who wanted to be part of a more ethical, intelligent time travel program. Excluding any of the three original cats who had stolen the technology in the first place was a dangerous way to proceed.
Even if it meant making nice with Nero, who had not uttered a word of apology for all of his shady shenanigans. He had also not uttered a word of reproach about being abandoned in the future, and having to rescue himself.
He hadn’t shipped out to Aleister College with the rest of his Anachronaut friends. Almost as if he was waiting for a better offer…
“Go on,” said Lovelace, who sounded revolted by how polite she was being right now. “What do you think, Nero?”
“I think,” said Nero in his familiar pompous tones. “If we’re going to do this, we have to be prepared to clean up our own mess along the way.”
There was a moment of silence as everyone marvelled at his audacity.
“I agree,” said Ruthven. “Let’s get to work.”
Fifty-Five
Here’s To the Future
Ruthven was not a fan of genuine sunshine. He was still getting to grips with twenty-fourth century Earth, and all its natural processes. Rain. Pollen. Gusty winds that rattled the centuries-old roof.
Still, he couldn’t shut himself away in the Fenthorp Manor cellar, new home of the Media Archive, every hour of the day. Especially not at this particular moment of the day, when the travellers were due to return.
Ruthven sat on a deckchair on the chamomile lawn behind the manor, sharing a tea table with Professor Boswell. To their left, Control provided tech support under the shade of a vintage gazebo. To their right, Aesop was gently chasing several students back and forth, her fur glowing bright purple in the afternoon sunlight.1
Six golden time hoops hung in the air above the grass, with the hillside view behind them. Every brick and pane of Fenthorp Manor vibrated as the portals hummed into life.
Windows were thrown open. Staff, students and other residents all stopped what they were doing to watch the spectacle: ovals brimming with oceanic light, cresting, bubbling…
Oxford came through first, in an outfit that made it very clear he had been playing English cricket: layers of beige and cream, with the occasional grass stain. His hair was rumpled. Jocasta, Oxford’s long-limbed tortoise-shell partner, slipped off his shoulder and proceeded in the direction of the kitchens.
She had learned to make herself scarce any time Oxford and Ruthven made eye contact, because that usually meant they were moving towards each other at great speed.
In this case, Oxford was loping forward, and Ruthven was calmly waiting from the comfort of his deckchair.
Humming. Cresting. Swirling. Bubbles.
Tunbridge came through next, whooping with triumph. She carried Ptolemy in one of two shopping bags, laden with books. Tunbridge was taking her mission to update the Fenthorp Manor libraries with long-lost publications very seriously. In her leisure time, she wore a t-shirt proclaiming Shhh! I’m a Time Librarian.
Humming. Cresting. Swirling. Bubbles.
Zadie and Banksia strode through the hoop in mid-conversation. The conversation carried them all the way across the lawn and into the house without acknowledging the existence of anyone else. (At least their reports were always well-written and entertaining, when they got around to filing them.)
Humming. Cresting. Swirling. Bubbles.
Boleyn and Nero landed at a run, clearly pursued by someone or something. White fur floated in the air around them as they urged Control to close their hoop as a matter of great urgency.
Humming. Cresting. Swirling. Bubbles.
Cressida and Boswell fell through the hoop, wrestling over some kind of fried cake, that had clearly only been allowed to time travel because it already had bites taken out of it…
Humming. Cresting. Swirling. Bubbles.
Abydos and Zephyr stepped through with their usual dignity intact. Zephyr wore a full Roman toga, and Abydos dripped with more gold jewellery than a statue of Bast. Must have been quite the party…
Ruthven did not pay further attention to the returning travellers after that, because Oxford had reached him and was leaning over, blocking out the sun…
Humming. Cresting. Swirling. Bubbles.
“That’s it,” exploded Monterey, waving his hands in indignation as he stalked through the hoop, Lovelace clinging to his shoulder. “Event Space is cactus. That’s the fourth formerly-Event year in as many hops that I can just stroll through without any resistance at all!”
“He’s cranky because Cleopatra had no idea who he was,” said Lovelace, biting his ear fondly.
“I am extremely memorable!” howled Monterey. “Ruthven, stop making out with your boyfriend while I am registering a complaint!”
Sunshine-warmed and thoroughly kissed, Ruthven drew back from Oxford and peered around his cream cricket jumper to make eye contact with Monterey. “I’ll have that report in writing,” he said firmly.
“But what are you going to do about it?” whined Monterey. “Cleopatra has completely forgotten that she wanted to be my best friend when we met in Event Space.”
