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  Addison folded the other corner to the crease. "We won World War II. What are you talking about?"

  "Only after detonating nuclear weapons mounted on trucks in France, Italy and Germany when D-Day faltered. We killed millions with those weapons in a desperate attempt to stop the Nazis. The cure turned out to be as bad or worse than the disease."

  "You're saying history doesn't have to play out the way we remember it?" Jules tapped a heel against the cabinet. "We can prevent the complete destruction of Europe?"

  "That's exactly what I'm saying. The focal point of this anomaly turns out to be a test flight Orville Wright took on September 27, 1908. A man named Charlie Taylor, the Wright brothers' mechanic, should have been replaced as co-pilot by Lieutenant Thomas Selfridge. Instead, Charlie Taylor flew, dying when the prop delaminated cutting a support cable, causing Orville to lose control and crash the aircraft."

  "Killing Charlie Taylor?"

  "Sound familiar?"

  Addison folded back one edge for a wing followed by the other to complete his creation. "If Selfridge was the one who died in the crash on the original temporal flow, then yeah, sounds like Charlie did a die back. I'm guessing he's not one of ours?"

  "No, one of Kairos', I think. Someone who has the ability to blood ink."

  Addison tossed his creation, the paper airplane flying a corkscrew pattern across the room before crashing into the opposite wall. "Why would Kairos change aviation history? And why not wait until the technology is a lot more advanced?"

  Nikki led them to the study. "I don't know. But experience tells me, whoever is behind these inkings, whether it's Kairos or someone else, his intentions are not in anyone's best interest but his own. Our focus today needs to be on Charlie Taylor. You need to ink in, rip the Inker out of Mr. Taylor, and make sure Lieutenant Selfridge dies on schedule. Jules, you'll be inking Selfridge. Make sure he's on that airplane by any means necessary. Addison, you'll be inking a Private Hanson."

  He pulled one of the desk chairs out, sitting down. "Someone important?"

  "A grease monkey assigned to assist the Wright's mechanic, Charlie Taylor. You'll be his assistant, but you'll also have access to him. I want you to find out what you can from him. You can take him to the edge of ripping to make him talk."

  "We do torture now, Nikki?"

  "He's an Inker, Addison. And as you know, ripping isn't torture for an Inker. It’s just a way home."

  Jules sat at the desk, tracing the letter 'R' with an index finger on the desk top. "What do you mean, rip?"

  "I mean to use electricity to shock an Inker’s consciousness to die back, mon ami.”

  "I think that's what my mom did to the guy who attacked us on our boat. She used a stun gun."

  Addison glared at Nikki. "Nikki uses more primitive methods, right Nikki? She just tosses your ass in a tub of water and lights you up."

  Jules grabbed the edge of the desk with both hands. "Really?"

  "Really, Jules. She did."

  Her eyes narrowed. "You electrocuted Addy?"

  "Have Addison explain. He knows the process intimately."

  "One more thing." Addison held up a finger. "How are we supposed to electrocute a guy in 1908? It's not like there's electrical outlets everywhere."

  Nikki put a hand on Addison's shoulder. "Good, you're thinking. I'll get an Inker to you in time who knows how to work with electricity. He'll put a rudimentary stun gun together. His name is Magnus, but he'll be inked into a Washington Post reporter, Nathaniel Beckman."

  Addison tapped on the desk. "If he gets there in time."

  "He'll be there." Nikki shrugged. "Probably."

  "So, we ink in, get the stun gun from Nathaniel, make Charlie talk, rip him, make sure the good Lieutenant has the ride of his life, and die back. By the way, how does Private Hanson die?"

  Nikki slid fresh sheets of paper in front of them, placing Memento by Jules and Renascentia by Addison. "Sometimes it's better not to know these things."

  Ah, Heckety

  Machine oil, gasoline fumes, canvas and tobacco fill my lungs. Quite a shift from the chocolate caramel aroma of Nikki’s espresso. I'm inked into Private Hanson, looking across a small engine at a man in his thirties, bushy mustache, a large cigar smoldering in his mouth, shaking his hand in pain. "Ah, heckety." Charlie Taylor, Orville and Wilber Wright's mechanic, and possibly a rogue Inker. "Wrench slipped." Pungent thick smoke envelopes him.

  I hand him a rag. "Will you be flying with Mr. Wright?"

  He looks up from his work, taking it from me. "I suppose so. Should be the ride of a lifetime. Never flown before."

  "No? I'd be in one of their machines in a heartbeat."

  "Don't get me wrong. I asked Orv to give me flying lessons."

  "No go?"

  He squints, as if trying to get me in better focus. "You have an odd way of talking, Private."

  Damn, he's suspicious and I've only been here for a minute. "I thought the Army had a lieutenant they wanted to fly with Mr. Wright. How'd you manage to get the U.S. Army to do something against its will?" He gives me a cautious stare, so I blunder on. "Being in the Army and all, I could use some skills in that department, if you know what I mean."

  Charlie puffs his cigar, dark smoke pouring from his mouth as he speaks. "Just told Orv the obvious. That Selfridge fellow has been spying on him and his brother for a while now. He's working with the Langley fellow on another design."

  "Can they do it? Build a competing aeroplane?"

  "As long as we don't hand them the plans on a silver platter, no. Orv just needed a reminder to watch Selfridge." He turns his head in both directions, leaning in as if I were a co-conspirator. "There's a dollar in it for you to make sure Lieutenant Selfridge doesn't get near the Flyer."

  "A dollar? You must really want to keep him away."

  "Do you want the dollar, or not?"

  "Yeah, sure. I'm your man."

  We work on the engine most of the morning. Orville doesn’t like how a magneto vibrated during flight, so Charlie fabricates some reinforced straps to firmly affix the magneto to the airframe. When we finish, I step out of the hanger, getting oriented to the place. The parade grounds consist of a large field of grass surrounded by buildings, barracks and offices and a line of trees. A hundred yards from the hanger is a derrick made of wood, a counterweight suspended by ropes, and a rail leading away. Hanson's memory tells me Orville uses the contraption to launch his aeroplane. Hopefully, Jules has found Magnus. We'll zap old Charlie with Magnus' stun gun, then get Jules, aka Lieutenant Selfridge, on the ill-fated Wright Flyer for her die back.

  ***

  Inking into Selfridge, the first sensation is a heavy odor of damp, mown grass. A vast, open field of green, lined with trees on one side, one and two-story buildings on the other. Brown boots, canvas leggings, itchy wool. Yeah, I'm in the Army now. As my host, Lieutenant Selfridge, I roam the parade grounds, the barracks, and outbuildings looking for our reporter with the stun gun. No luck. Magnus better show up soon or we're going to have to improvise something.

  Once at the hangar, I turn to scan the parade grounds one last time when I'm almost knocked to the ground.

  "Sorry Lieutenant. Didn't see you there."

  He's a young man in his twenties in a suit and hat. "Nathaniel?"

  He tips his hat with disingenuous smile of a used car salesman. "No, just a spectator. Have a nice day."

  When I slip inside the door, Hanson's running a checklist. Charlie, his back to me, is focused on Hanson. What Addy doesn't know is that I haven't been able to find our contact or acquire a stun gun. Improv time. Addy keeps up the banter.

  "Charlie, could you check this cable to be sure I've got the correct tension?"

  Charlie bends down to inspect Hanson's work. Now would be a good time to zap the bejesus out of him, but instead, I raise a chunk of wood in the air, coming down hard on the back of Charlie's head. He falls to the ground, moaning.

  "What the hell, Jules."

&nbs
p; "Magnus never showed with a stun gun. We've got to try something else." I've got a two-by-four poised to whack Charlie again.

  "So, you're going to beat him to death with a piece of wood?"

  "Well, do you have a plan?"

  "Wait. I think I do." He stepped over to the Flyer's engine. “Charlie and I worked on the magneto this morning.”

  "Not sure where you're going with this."

  He smiles, holding the loose end of a wire. "Magnetos generate electricity."

  "Oh, right."

  We worked quickly. I drag a semi-conscious Charlie to the wing's leading edge near the engine, tearing his shirt away. Addy strips the wires prior to placing bare copper leads on Charlie's chest, wrapping them tight against his skin by winding spare canvas around him.

  "The drive chains aren't in place Jules, so all I have to do is put some raw gas in the engine and turn a flywheel. We'll make some noise, but anyone walking by will think we're just testing the engine."

  After several attempts, the engine sputters to life. Jolts of electricity course through Charlie's body. He opens his eyes, his face turning to a grimace as he gains awareness of his predicament.

  Addy leans into our captive. "Good afternoon, Charlie. Or do you go by another name?"

  Charlie glowers, but says nothing. I spin up the magneto to send some encouraging jolts of electricity through his body. He jerks, wincing, but never loses control.

  "Who do you work for? Kairos? Why keep Selfridge from dying in the plane crash?"

  Charlie spits, disdain etched across his face.

  "It's not working, Addy."

  "We need a conductor. Some water. Stay with him. There's a trough outside."

  He grabs a bucket, running around the back of our hangar in search of water. I go to the door, hoping to God our contact will show. Where is he? I hear something behind me before I see a blur coming right at me.

  ***

  Bucket of water in hand, I return to see Selfridge, Jules, sprawled on the floor. Charlie, burn marks on his chest from the copper wires, holds a large wrench and looks very pissed off.

  "What did you do to her you son of a bitch?" I want to go to her, but Charlie takes a swing, keeping me at bay.

  He glares at me, spitting out his words. "A League Inker. I was told to expect you."

  Crap. He seems to know more about me than I do about him. If he killed Selfridge, Jules has died back and we're screwed. "I don't know what you're talking about. What happened to the Lieutenant?"

  Charlie glances over to Selfridge. "He had a little accident. Aeroplanes can be dangerous, you know."

  How am I going to stop this guy? I need a weapon. "I better get some help."

  "I don't think so." He lunges for me, swinging the wrench like a baseball bat at my head. I dive out of his way, crawling under the aircraft, keeping a wing between us.

  I've got a hand on the wing, a flimsy craft project of linen and spruce. "Drop the wrench or I make sure you don't fly today, asshole."

  He's breathing hard, the wrench poised to hurl at my head. His eyes harden. "How you gonna stop me?"

  "These things are pretty fragile. A break here or there and you're grounded."

  "You wouldn't. You'd shift the continuum."

  "Try me."

  He lifts his hands in surrender, slowly crouching to lay his wrench on the floor. But his body jerks with sudden force, and my leg explodes in pain. The son of a bitch threw his wrench at me. I crumble to the ground and he's on me, punching my face and stomach. I fight back, landing a fist to his face. He puts a forearm in my jaw. Kicking away, I turn to find a weapon. Anything. As I scramble for the wrench he pounces on my back, wrapping a leather strap around my neck.

  "Die back, Inker! Die back from wherever you came. You can't stop us."

  He pulls me to a standing position. I grab at his arms, but the strap tightens around my throat. The room darkens. I can't breathe. “Jules…”

  A male voice says, "Ciao, asshole."

  P-zzz-tttt. My attacker falls to the floor convulsing until he lay still as death. I fall forward, on hands and knees, gasping, the air fouled with an acrid stench of burning flesh. Selfridge is sitting up, rubbing the back of his neck. Charlie lay unconscious behind me. A twenty-something man in a suit and straw hat smiles, holding a wooden contraption the size of a shoe box and a six foot long staff with two wires running the length.

  "Magnus?"

  "Nathaniel here, but yes, present-side I'm Magnus. Sorry I'm a bit late."

  "You ripped him."

  "If you're trying to thank me, you're welcome."

  I grab Charles' garroting strap, hurling it across the hangar. "No, we were suppose to interrogate him, find out what these inkers are planning to do."

  Selfridge rests his head on the airframe. "Addy, if Magnus hadn't shown up we would have both died back. At least we can get my host on the plane to keep the continuum stable."

  Magnus frowns. “How about instead of arguing, we get Charlie back in his shirt and cleaned up a bit before he comes to."

  "Won't he know what happened?"

  Magnus helps me to my feet. "He's been ripped, my friend. Won't remember a thing. You can tell him he hit his head on a spar, which will explain the lump."

  Selfridge stands up, still massaging his neck. "Sorry, Addy. I don't know how he got the drop on me like that."

  Magnus looks for Charlie's shirt, which he finds and tosses to me. "He's obviously a trained agent. Under the circumstances, you did fine for a couple of rookies."

  Selfridge steps over to Charlie. "What about the burns? Won't he notice burn marks on his chest and back?"

  "Sure he will, but if you had burn marks on you appearing out of nowhere, would you tell anybody?"

  "I suppose not. Probably come up with some kind of rational explanation."

  "Exactly. Look, I've got to go." He walks toward the door, tearing wires from inside the box, tossing them in a trash barrel, then smashing the box against the side of the building leaving a small pile of kindling. "Good work, you two."

  ***

  I'm sure Addy thinks I should be used to die back by now, especially after surviving Nikki's crazy training program. But I can't say I'm okay with what's about to happen. Orville Wright seems like a nice guy. A bit intense, but in a good way. I climb on board with him, ready for my first and, I suppose, last flight in his flying machine. After he checks his controls, a couple of soldiers turn two large props until our engine fires to life. Addison wired the magneto back correctly, thank God. Five other soldiers grab hold of a line, heaving a weight suspended in a wooden derrick-like structure behind us. Each cylinder of the engine pops, drive chains for the props rattle in their guides. Pungent fumes of raw gasoline mix with exhaust. On Orville's signal, the weight drops, catapulting us forward on a rail and we're airborne.

  I'm sitting on a seat attached to the wing, with Orville to my left, no belts or harnesses to hold us. Orville climbs to about one hundred fifty feet, wind pressing us against our seats. He makes slow graceful turns around the parade grounds, its edges lined with soldiers and civilians anxious to see us fly. On our fourth pass, we both hear a tapping sound. With two thumps and a crack, our airframe shakes, and banks right. Orville glances back, and shuts down his engine. My heart's in my throat. I know this is the beginning of my end. He continues to fly the controls. One propeller has broken and our tail sags at a wrong angle. I look to Orville, who somehow remains calm in the midst of this chaos, when the nose dives for the ground.

  “Oh…oh…” I want to scream but there's no time, the ground rushing up to us, Orville still working the controls. We slam hard, as a searing pain, like a molten blade shoved through my brain, flashes across my consciousness…

  ***

  Standing by the hangar, Charlie and I watch Orville and Selfridge fly a slow and low pattern above the parade grounds when the drone of the Wright Flyer's engine goes silent. The plane falters, as if a wizard has removed a spell keeping the fragile canvas
and spruce bird aloft, then drops, nose down, to the hard ground.

  A horrified expression crosses Charlie's face bespeaking broken dreams and death. There's an eerie silence before all hell breaks loose with cavalry rushing to the wreck, followed by the rest of us. I know Charlie wants to find Orville. I need to be sure Lieutenant Selfridge has died. When I get to him, he's tangled in the wreckage, a six inch gash across his head, blood streaming over his face. It'll be a few hours until he passes. A long time for a man to wait for death and a long time for an Inker to wait for die back. At least he's unconscious. I make up some story about how close I am to the Lieutenant, not wanting to leave Jules alone with her die back. With a medic, I help carry his litter to the fort's infirmary, where he's taken right to surgery for a skull fracture. I know he's going to die, but I hang in the background. For Jules. I don't have long to wait. Selfridge never regains consciousness, and by late evening, he slips away.

  We did it. We ripped a rogue Inker from Charlie Taylor's consciousness, repairing the anomaly. Jules has safely died back. All I need to do now is wait for my own die back. I walk down a hospital corridor turning a corner to descend some stairs. I don't know why Nikki didn't tell me how I'd die. Jules got to know. Surely it wouldn't make any difference for me to know as well. I look up to stunning azure eyes and the smiling face of a young nurse, walking up the stairs. Passing me, she smells of a spring day. I trip over my own foot.

  "Shit."

  Head over heels, I cartwheel down the staircase, my arm snapping against wrought iron steps, hot pain exploding, as bone breaks through flesh. My topsy-turvy world blurs my vision, preventing me from telling which way is up, until, in a last moment of conscious hyperawareness, a finely detailed arrowhead filigree impales my face.

  ***

  Addison gasped, swatting nonexistent iron work from his face. Across the table, Jules threw up into a trash can.

  "Oh my god. That was intense. Jesus, Addy." She heaved again, spitting bits of vomit into the can. "Does this get any easier?"

  Addison pushed away, keeping his hands on the table to steady himself. "Impaled on a railing? Really? Don't you think I might want to know something like that Nikki?"