Time Trapped by Richard Ungar Page A

mindpatches and translator implants.”
    â€œCertainly, Uncle.”
    As I walk through the doorway, I don’t feel any great rush of relief. He hasn’t punished me yet, but it’s coming, all right. Sure as the rain comes to Scotland in the spring. I suppose I should be grateful for our little meeting, though. Because, now I have something new to worry about—tomorrow’s meeting with him and Frank.
    So thank you, Uncle.

October 4, 2061, 8:43 P.M.
    The Compound
SoHo, New Beijing (formerly New York City)
    L uca is herding eight recruits into a line. A few of them are fingering the backs of their necks where the implants were inserted.
    Watching him in action, I’m struck again by how much he looks like Nassim. Which leads me to wonder whatever happened to Nassim. The last time I saw him was when I escaped with him and Zach to 1967.
    I continue to watch Luca. Uncle must have given him orders to be gentle with the recruits, judging from the way he’s sweet-talking them.
    â€œMake a nice straight line, now,” he says. “For anyone who behaves, he’ll get a treat at the end of the tour.”
    The recruits look tired. Razor catches my eye and gives me a devilish smile.
    â€œYou mean he or she will get a treat,” Razor pipes up.
    There are a couple of snickers from the other recruits.
    Luca whips his head around. “Who said that?”
    Wonderful. That didn’t take long.
    Razor steps forward. She’s not shaking at all, which I find amazing, given that Luca is about three times her size.
    â€œRepeat what you said,” he says, smiling.
    â€œI said ‘he or she will get a treat,’” Razor says coolly.
    â€œYou don’t like my English?” Luca says, his eyes gleaming.
    â€œNo, I don’t like your English,” Razor says, and this draws a laugh from the other recruits.
    Luca walks around her. The others fall silent.
    â€œYou’re a very funny girl,” he says. “At least I think you’re a girl. Does Funny Girl know baseball?”
    â€œSure,” she says. This time, there’s a slight crack in her voice.
    â€œGood. Strike one on you, Funny Girl.”
    â€œFor doing what?” she shoots back.
    Luca stares at her. His right hand moves under his shirt where he keeps his E-Prod.
    I cringe. This is my fault. I should have warned her that this is no game. That Luca will jolt her if she doesn’t fall in line.
    â€œStrike two now. One more, and you’re out, Funny Girl.”
    I hold my breath, praying that she doesn’t do anything stupid.
    Thankfully, she keeps her mouth shut. I let out a long, slow breath.
    Luca resumes walking and leads the group to the north end of the Yard. “This used to be a factory,” he says. “You see those machines over there?” He gestures to an iron contraption hiding in the shadows, near the wall. “They had something to do with making shoes. I think one of them was for stretching the leather.”
    The curly-haired boy with glasses, Abbie’s quarry, I think, walks over to one of the machines casual as can be and starts running his fingers over the controls.
    â€œNo touching.” Luca grabs his arm and pulls him back to the line. “What’s your name, recruit?” he says, crouching down to the boy’s eye level.
    â€œDmitri.”
    â€œWell, Dmitri,” says Luca, leaning closer, “you don’t want that nasty machine grabbing your skin and stretching it now, do you?”
    â€œIt wouldn’t,” Dmitri says.
    Luca laughs. But no one else joins in.
    â€œHow do you know for sure?” he asks.
    â€œThat machine isn’t for stretching leather,” Dmitri says. “It’s for perforating fabric.”
    Luca laughs again. “
Perforating,
you say. Such a big word for a small boy. Would you like to give the tour, Dmitri? Maybe we should switch places. Who votes for Dmitri?”
    Not one hand goes up. But