Thieves

route is where the hologram blueprints said it would be. I make a mental note to find a creative way to thank the hologram programmers for their precision. There’s only one torch in the stairwell, so I feel my way along the wood-paneled walls as I go down the stairs. The first-floor landing opens to the main hall which boasts five columned archways on each side of the room. The house is asleep. The best plan to get out the front door at the far end of the foyer without waking anyone is to skirt the north wall until reaching the ornate entry door.
In a trice, I’m outside in the cool night air. The house faces west toward Florence, our ship is nestled in the fruit orchards to the North. I make a quick right turn and follow the outline the villa toward the upper terrace wall.
If I am the luckiest I have ever been in my life, I might make it to the extraction point with seconds to spare.
“Carter,” I whisper into the CommLink. “I’m on my way.”
Nothing.
“Carter.”
More silence. My heart skips a beat. Did they really leave me?
Instead of Commander Carter’s condescending tone, I’m relieved to hear the Spanish-accented voice of our ship’s co-pilot. “Five minutes, Dodger,” Nico says. I like Nico because he’s smart, doesn’t pry, and sometimes laughs at my jokes. He’s the only one I allow, other than Fagin, to use my nickname.
He’s also the only one sharing my bed. He has an ass that could stop time itself if the temporal gods had a mind to marvel at perfection.
“Don’t make me come after you,” Nico says.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I ask, volleying the banter back to him.
“As a matter of fact, I would.”
Moving briskly through the door in the stone wall that surrounds the terraced villa, I make my way toward the first of several fruit tree orchards. There is one hundred meters of exposed ground between me and the relative safety of the trees.
“Intruders! Intruders in the garden!” A man shouts.
I turn to see three of the duke’s guards running toward me. I break into a dead run. My heart pounds in my ears as I race through the grove, dodging low-hanging branches and weaving in and out through rose bushes and ornamental sculptures.
“Four minutes,” Nico says.
I’m back out in the open, headed toward the next section of the orchard. A quick cut left, and I duck into a path lined with tall boxwoods which temporarily shields me from the soldiers’ view. Their shouts continue, calling others to the chase.
They’re not far behind. I run another mental time check based on the remaining distance to the ship.
It will be damn close.
At the end of the pathway, I spot the darkened outline of the Marchesa’s house in the distance beyond the orchards. Our Timeships are chameleons. No matter what time period or the terrain, the ship’s hologram program projects a three-dimensional image that camouflages the sleek hull. It can also hover—cloaked—ten feet off the ground, keeping locals from bumping into it.
The LensCams detects the faint outline of our ship, a robin’s egg-blue aura glowing at the grove’s perimeter, unseen by the naked eye.
“Left the lights on for you,” Nico says. “Two minutes.”
My legs pump harder, faster than I have ever run; my lungs heave with labored breath. I’m getting light-headed. There’s more shouting behind me.
“Open the door.” My voice wheezes with the effort to speak.
There’s a moment’s hesitation between my command and the response before the door slides open and I tumble inside. The palace guards are so close, it will be mere seconds before they topple into the ship after me.
One of the other mercenaries shouts, “We’ve got her. Go!”
The three men outside skid to a halt, their shoes scuffing the dirt up in small clouds around their feet. Their mouths hang open in disbelief. From their perspective, it looks as though trees have opened to reveal a strange world. They can see the blinking lights on the console panels and hear the sounds of our ship coming to life.
One guard drops to his knees and cries, “God save us.”
The others backpedal, arms wind-milling as they trip over each other to escape, leaving their companion to scramble after them.
The door slides shut and a high-pitched whirring sound mellows into a deep hum as the ship launches.  I wish I could see the faces of the palace guards as they try to answer why they returned from the chase with no prisoner. Would they be able to speak of the strange world inside the trees? I bet they never tell a soul what they’ve seen and only speak of it to each other in hushed, drunken voices.
Still gasping for breath, I push myself up to sit against the wall. Before I’m able to make a joke and ask if I’m on time, Carter’s voice booms over the speakers. “Arseneau. Get your ass up here. Now.”

Chapter 2
There are technical explanations for the mechanics of time travel, but I don’t care what they are. Let scientists and academics discuss warp drives, harnessing the unpredictable power of wormholes and dark matter, and manipulating the fabric of space and time. I want to eat pomegranates while watching the pyramids at Giza being built, infiltrate Catherine the Great’s royal court, and play muse to Vincent van Gogh as he paints just for me.
If there’s a universal complaint among time thieves—aside from minor seasickness ripping through time can produce—it’s the pieces of shit we’re forced to travel in. Living in the shadows to avoid capture for illegal time travel means the state-of-the-art Timeships are reserved for government sanctioned time travel missions. We make do with antiquated ships that afford little privacy other than the cramped crew quarters. Even worse, the meal replacement bars from the replicators—nutritionally complete and filling—are shit.
As I enter the cockpit, I’m not worried about another recitation of The Sins of Clémence Arseneau According to Jackson Carter. I enjoy banter with mission commanders because it’s so easy to