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  RIPPING TIME

  LINDA EVANS and ROBERT ASPRIN

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright (c) 2000 by Bill Fawcett & Associates

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  ISBN: 0-671-57867-7

  Cover art by John Monteleone

  First printing, May 2000

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

  Printed in the United States of America

  OUT OF THE FRYING PAN—

  INTO THE TIME TUNNEL

  Armstrong thrust one gun into a pocket, shoved the other two into Jenna’s shocked hands. “If I tell you to shoot, do it!” Then the detective jerked her into motion once more.

  They pelted down the alleyway and into heavy traffic. Armstrong ran right in front of a taxi. The car screeched to a halt, the driver cursing. Armstrong yanked open the driver’s door and tossed the cabby into the street.

  “Get in!”

  Jenna dove for the passenger’s door. She barely had her feet off the pavement before the car squealed into motion. Armstrong drove like a maniac. “Forget Europe, kid,” he muttered. “They’re not gonna let you get out of New York alive.”

  Jenna’s eyes burned, and she couldn’t get enough air down.

  “Ever been time-touring, kid?” Armstrong asked before she could speak.

  “Wh-what?”

  “Time-touring. Have you ever?”

  She blinked, tried to force her brain to function again. “No. But … Carl and I, we were going to go … through TT-86, to London. Got the tickets and everything, used false ID to buy them, to keep it a secret …”

  The taxi that Armstrong had taken from its driver slewed around another corner, merged with traffic on Broadway, slowed to a decorous pace.

  “Kid,” the detective said softly, “those tickets might just save your life. Because the only by-God way out of this city now is through TT-86.”

  Other Books in the Time Scout Series:

  Time Scout

  Wagers of Sin

  Ripping Time

  The House That Jack Built (forthcoming)

  Baen Books by Linda Evans:

  Far Edge of Darkness

  Bolos: The Triumphant

  (by David Weber & Linda Evans)

  Chapter One

  She hadn’t come to Shangri-La Station for the usual reasons.

  A slight and frightened young woman, Jenna had lost the lean and supple dancer’s grace which had been hers … God, was it only three days ago? It seemed a year, at least, for every one of those days, a whole lifetime since the phone call had come.

  “Jenna Nicole,” her aunt’s voice had startled her, since Aunt Cassie hadn’t called in months, not since before Jenna had joined the Temple, “I want to see you, dear. This evening.”

  The commanding tone and the use of her full name, as much as the unexpected timing, threw her off stride. “This evening? Are you serious? Where are you?” Jenna’s favorite aunt, her mother’s only sister, didn’t live anywhere near New York, only appeared in the City for film shoots and publicity appearances.

  “I’m in town, of course,” Cassie Tyrol’s famous voice came through the line, faintly exasperated. “I flew in an hour ago. Whatever you’ve got on your calendar, cancel it. Dinner, class, Temple services, anything. Be at Luigi’s at six. And Jenna, darling, don’t bring your roommate. This is business, family business, understand? You’re in deep trouble, my girl.”

  Jenna’s stomach clenched into knots. Oh, my God. She’s found out! Aloud, she managed to say, “Luigi’s at six, okay, I’ll be there.” Only a lifetime’s worth of acting experience and the raw talent she’d inherited from the same family that had produced the legendary Jocasta “Cassie” Tyrol got that simple sentence out without her voice shaking. She’s found out, what’ll she say, what’ll she do, oh my God, what if she’s told Daddy? She wouldn’t tell him, would she? Jenna’s aunt hated her father, almost as much as Jenna did.

  Hand shaking, Jenna hung up the phone and found Carl staring at her, dark eyes perplexed. The holographic video simulation they’d been running, the one they’d been thrown into fits of giggles over, trying to get ready for their grand adventure, time touring in London, flickered silently behind Jenna’s roommate, forgotten as thoroughly as last summer’s fun and games. Carl blinked, owl-like, through his glasses. “Nikki? What’s wrong?” He always called her by her middle name, rather than her more famous given name—an endearing habit that had drawn her to him from the very beginning. He brushed Jenna’s hair back from her brow. “Hey, what is it? You look like you just heard from a ghost.”

  She managed a smile. “Worse. Aunt Cassie’s in town.”

  “Oh, dear God!” Carl’s expressive eyes literally radiated sympathy, which was another reason Jenna had moved in with him. Sympathy was in short supply when your father was the John Paul Caddrick, the Senator everybody loved to hate.

  Jenna nodded. “Yeah. What’s worse, she wants me to meet her by six. At Luigi’s, for God’s sake!”

  Carl’s eyes widened. “Luigi’s? You’re kidding? That’s worse than bad. Press’ll be crawling all over you. Remind me to thank the Lady of Heaven for not giving me famous relatives.”

  Jenna glared up at him. “Some help you are, lover! And just what am I supposed to wear to Luigi’s? Do you see any six-thousand-dollar dresses in my closet?” Jenna hadn’t put on much of anything but ratty jeans since hitting college. “The last time I was seen in public with Aunt Cassie, she had on a blouse that cost more than the rent on this apartment for a year! And I still haven’t lived down the bad press from that horrible afternoon!” She hid her face in her hands, still mortified by the memory of being immortalized on every television set and magazine cover in the country after slipping headlong into a mud puddle. “Cassie Tyrol and her niece, the mudlark …”

  “Yep, that’s you, Jenna Nicole, the prettiest mudlark in Brooklyn.” Jenna put out her tongue, but Carl’s infectious grin helped ease a little of the panic tightening down. He tickled her chin. “Look, it’s nearly four, now. If you’re gonna be in any shape to walk into Luigi’s by six, with a crowd of reporters falling all over the two of you—” Jenna just groaned, at which Carl had the impudence to laugh “—then you’d better jump, hon. In case you hadn’t noticed, you look like shit.” Carl eyed her up and down, wrinkling his nose. “That’s what happens when you stay out ‘til four A.M., working on a script due at six, then forget to go to bed when you get back from class.”

  Jenna threw a rolled up sock at him. He ducked with the ease of a born dancer and the forlorn sock sailed straight through a ghostly, three-dimensional simulation of a young woman laced into proper attire for a lady of style, prim and proper and all set to enjoy London’s Season. The Season of 1888. When Jenna’s sock “landed” in the holographic teacup, while the holographic young lady continued smiling and sipping her now-contaminated tea, Jenna’s roommate fell down on the floor, howling and pointing a waggling finger at her. “Oh, Nikki, three-point shot!”

  Jenna scowled down at the idiot, who lay rolling around holding his ribs and sputtering with laughter. “Thanks, Carl. You’re all heart. Remind me to lose your invitation to the graduation party. If I ever graduate. God, if Simkins rejects this script, I’ll throw myself i
n the East River.”

  Carl chuckled and rolled over, coming to his feet easily to switch off the holoprojector they’d borrowed from the campus library. “Nah. You’ll just film it, win an Oscar or two, and take his job. Can you imagine? A member of the Temple on faculty?”

  Jenna grinned—and bushwhacked Carl from behind while he wasn’t looking, getting in several retaliatory tickles. He twisted around and stole a kiss, which turned into a clutch for solid ground, because she couldn’t quite bring herself to tell Carl the worst part of her news, that her aunt knew. Just how much Cassie knew remained to be seen. And what she intended to do about it, Jenna didn’t even want to think about. So she just held onto Carl for a long moment, queasy and scared in the pit of her stomach.

  “Hey,” he said gently, “it isn’t that bad, is it?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s worse.”

  “Cassie loves you, don’t you know that?”

  She looked up, blinking hard. “Yes. That’s why it’s worse.”

  His lips quirked into a sad, understanding little smile that wrenched at Jenna’s heart. “Yeah. I know. Listen, how about I clean up the place while you’re out, just in case she wants to visit, then when it’s over, I’ll give you a backrub, brush your hair, pamper your feet, spoil you silly?”

  She gave him a watery smile. “Lover boy, you got yourself a deal.”

  Then she sighed and stepped into the shower, where she could let the smile pour away down the drain, wishing the fear would drain away with it. Christ, what could she tell Aunt Cassie? She tried to envision the scene, quailed inwardly. Cassie Tyrol, cool and elegant and very Parisian, despite her New Hollywood accent and the ranch up in the hills, where Jenna had spent the happiest summers of her life—the only happy ones, in fact, until college and the Temple and Carl… . Aunt Cassie was not likely to take the news well. Not at all. Better, of course, than her father.

  Two hours later, Jenna was still quailing, despite the outward charm of her smile for the maitre d’ at Luigi’s, the most fashionable of the restaurants owned by increasingly wealthy members of New York’s leading Lady of Heaven Temple. It was little wonder her aunt had chosen Luigi’s. Given Cassie’s prominence in the New Hollywood Temple, she probably had a stakeholder’s share in the restaurant’s profits. Jenna’s only aunt never did anything by halves. That included throwing herself into her latest religion or making money the way Jenna accumulated rejection slips for her screenplays.

  The maitre d’ greeted her effusively, by name. “Good evening, Ms. Caddrick, your aunt’s table is right this way.”

  “Thank you.” She resisted the urge to twitch at her dress. Carl had, while she showered and did her hair and makeup with the most exquisite care she’d used in a year, worked a genuine theatrical miracle. He’d rushed over to the theater department and liberated a costume which looked like a million bucks and had only cost a few thousand to construct, having been donated by some New Hollywood diva who’d needed a tax write-off. Jenna, who existed by her own stubborn insistence on a student’s budget that did not include dinner at Luigi’s or the requisite fashions appropriate to be seen there, had squealed with delight at his surprise.

  “You wonderful idiot! If they’d caught you sneaking this out, they’d have thrown you out of college!”

  “Yeah, but it’d be worth it, just looking at you in it.” He ran his gaze appreciatively across her curves.

  “Huh. This dress is a lot more glamorous than I am. Now, if I just had Aunt Cassie’s nose, or cheekbones, or chin …”

  “I like your nose and cheekbones and chin just the way they are. And if you don’t scoot, you’ll be late.”

  So Jenna had slid gingerly into the exquisite dress, all silken fringe and swaying sheik, and splurged on a taxi, since arriving on a bicycle in a ten-thousand-dollar dress simply would not do. Jenna followed the maitre d’ nervously into the glitzy restaurant, aware of the stares as she made her way past tables frequented by New York’s wealthiest Templars. She did her best to ignore the whispers, staring straight ahead and concentrating on not falling off her high-heeled shoes and damning her father for saddling her with the price of an infamous family face and name.

  Then she spotted her aunt at a dim-lit corner table and swallowed hard, palms abruptly wet. Oh, God, she’s got somebody with her and it’s not her latest.

  If this was family only … The only person it could be was a private detective. Cassie’d hired more than her share over the years. Jenna knew her style. Which meant Jenna was in really serious hot water. Worse, her aunt appeared to be absorbed in a violent argument with whoever it was. The dark circles under Cassie Tyrol’s eyes shocked her. When Jenna reached the table, conversation sliced off so abruptly, Jenna could actually hear the echoes of the silence left behind. Her aunt managed a brittle smile as she stooped to kiss one expertly manicured cheek.

  “Hello, Jenna, dear. Sit down, please. This is Noah Armstrong.”

  Jenna shook hands, trying to decide if the androgynous individual in a fluid silk suit beside her aunt was male or female, then settled for, “A pleasure, Noah.” Living in New York for the past four years—not to mention a solid year plunged into Temple life—had been an education in more ways than one.

  “Ms. Caddrick.” Firm handclasp, no clue from the voice. Noah Armstrong’s eyes were about as friendly as a rabid pit bull challenging all comers to a choice cut of steak.

  Jenna ignored Armstrong with a determination that matched Armstrong’s dark scowl, sat down, and smiled far too brightly as Cassie Tyrol poured wine. Cassie handed over a glass in which tiny motion rings disturbed the wine’s deep claret glint. Jenna hastily took it from her aunt before it could slosh onto snowy linen.

  “Well, what a surprise, Cassie.” She glanced around the elegant restaurant, surreptitiously tugging at her short skirt to be sure nothing untoward was showing, and realized with a start of surprise there were no reporters lurking. “Gawd. How’d you manage to ditch the press?”

  Her aunt did not smile. Uh-oh.

  “This was not an announced visit,” she said quietly. “Officially, I’m still in L.A.”

  Worse, oh, man, she’s gonna let me have it, both barrels …

  “I see. Okay,” she sighed, resigned to the worst, “let’s have it.”

  Cassie’s lips tightened briefly. The redness in her eyes told Jenna she’d been crying a great deal, lately, which only added guilt to an already-simmering stew of fear and defensiveness. Jenna, wishing she could gulp down the wine, sipped daintily, instead, determined to maintain at least a facade of calm.

  “It’s …” Cassie hesitated, glanced at Noah Armstrong, then sighed and met Jenna’s gaze squarely. “It’s your father, Jenna. I’ve discovered something about him. Something you deserve to know, because it’s going to wreck all our lives for the next year or so.”

  Jenna managed not to spray wine all over the snowy linen, but only because she snorted thirty-dollar-a-glass wine into her sinuses, instead. She blinked hard, eyes watering, wineglass frozen at her lips. When she’d regained control, Jenna carefully lowered the glass to the table and stared at her aunt, mind spinning as she tried to reassess the entire purpose for this clandestine meeting. She couldn’t even think of a rejoinder that would make sense.

  “Drink that wine,” her aunt said brusquely. “You’re going to need it.”

  Jenna swallowed hard, just once. Then knocked the wine back, abruptly wishing this meeting had been about her highly secret downtime trip with Carl, a trip they’d been planning for more than a year, to Victorian London, where she and her roommate planned to film the East End terror instilled by Jack the Ripper. They’d bought the tickets fourteen months previously under assumed names, using extremely well-made false identifications she and Carl had managed to buy from an underworld dealer in new identities. New York teemed with such dealers, with new identifications available for the price of a few hits of cocaine; but they’d paid top dollar, getting the best in the
business, because Jenna Nicole Caddrick’s new identity had to be foolproof. Had to be, if she hoped to keep the downtime trip secret from her father. And what her father would do if he found out …

  Jenna had as many reasons to fear her world-famous father as she had to adore her equally famous aunt. Whatever Cassie was about to lay on her, it promised to be far worse than having her father discover she was going time-touring in the face of the elder Caddrick’s ultimatums about never setting foot through any time terminal gate, ever. Voice tight despite her relief at the reprieve, Jenna asked, “Dad, huh? What’s the son-of-a-bitch done now? Outlaw fun? He’s outlawed everything else.”

  Noah Armstrong glanced sharply into Jenna’s eyes. “No. This isn’t about his career as a legislator. Not … precisely.”

  Jenna glanced into his—her?—eyes and scowled. “Who the hell are you, Armstrong? Where do you fit into anything?”

  Armstrong’s lips thinned slightly, but no reply was forthcoming. Not to her, at any rate. The look Armstrong shot Jenna’s aunt spoke volumes, a dismissive, superior look that relegated Jenna to the realm of infant toddlers who couldn’t think for themselves or be trusted not to piddle on the Persian carpets.

  Jenna’s aunt said tiredly, “Noah’s a detective, hon. I went to the Wardmann Wolfe agency a few months ago, asked for their best. They assigned Noah to the case. And … Noah’s a member of the Temple. That’s important. More important than you can begin to guess.”

  Jenna narrowed her eyes at the enigmatic detective across the table. Wardmann Wolfe, huh? Aunt Cassie certainly didn’t do things by halves. She never had, come to that. Whatever her father had done, it was clearly more serious than the occasional sex scandals which, decades ago, had rocked the careers of other legislators possessing her father’s stature. A chill ran through her, wondering just what Daddy Dearest was involved in.

  Cassie said heavily, “You remember Alston Corliss?”

  Jenna glanced up, startled. “The guy in Sacred Harlot with you? Blond, looks like a fey elf, loves Manx cats, opera, and jazz dance? Nominated for an Oscar for Harlot, wasn’t he? And still a senior at Julliard.” Jenna had been impressed—deeply so—by her aunt’s talented young co-star. And more than a little envious of that Oscar nomination. And with his good looks, Jenna had just about melted all over the theater seats every time he smiled. Guiltily, she remembered a promise to try and get Carl an autograph, via the connection with her aunt. “Wasn’t there some talk of you starring in another film with him? Something about A Templar Goes to Washington, sort of a new take on that old classic film?