The Time Traveller's Ball (The Erik Midgard Case Files Volume 1)

Chapter 9

IX

“I do not see the grounds on which you are still claiming authority here,” said Xandra Mammon.

            “I’ll explain using small words,” said Mirabi. “We are here. We are in charge. Like it or lump it.”

            “That recording directly incriminates ChronOps,” said Xandra, pointing a long finger at the big screen; where the Prince’s last moments were looping over and over again. It had reduced Felicia Brahman to tears once more, as Chris Venus struggled with the palmcom to turn it off. “Those boots are identical to one’s your partner is wearing right now. We cannot trust either of you. It is time to signal Free Mars for some professional assistance.”

            “Yes,” said Zachary Midnight, nodding. “And while it’s not necessarily Midgard, those boots are unisex. It could just as easily be her,”

             “Do I look like a size twelve?” said Mirabi.

            As Midnight backed away, apologising, but not fast enough, I tapped wristcom to check the satellite was still doing its job. All the readings showed normal, but I got proof a couple of seconds later when Xandra Mammon tried to use her expensive platinum watchcom and found she couldn’t get a hypersignal.

            “Sorry, Mrs Mammon,” I said. “We were first on scene and time travel is involved. This is a ChronOps investigation and it is staying one.”

            The scowl she gave me could have cut through ultratanium.

            “Definitely,” said Mirabi, as Zachary Midnight scurried away to a safer part of the room. “Though we could do without this.”

            “AG,” I said, as the loop played itself a final time before Venus found the right control, with help from James Metatron, and it returned the screen to the map of the Martian system. An assassin was bad enough. An assassin wearing ChronOps issue field boots was worst nightmare territory. There was no chance of it being mistaken identity. Mirabi and I both recognised the make and model of footwear we put on every morning. The implication – and the worst possibility – was a rogue officer, possibly from the future, backstepping to kill the Prince for reasons unknown.

            “You’d better call it in,” said Mirabi.

            “I know,” I said. “But I’d rather not.”

            “Well, I’d rather not have to turn the Falls back over to those morons posing as prison guards on Hektor; but when the time comes, I’m going to do it,” said Mirabi. “I know what you’re thinking…”

            “We’ll lose the case,” I said. Not in the terms of a courtroom.

            “I know,” said Mirabi. “But a backstepper has all the aces. You should know. We could blink and find ourselves looking down a laser. You have to call it in.”