Thieves

two-bit grifter who thinks she’s the shit, are beyond help. You’re both detrimental to their operation.”
My hands clench into fists at my side; my fingernails dig into my palms. Still feeling the after-effects of racing to get to the ship, I have to work to keep my breathing steady. “Fagin could outplay you any day of the week and twice on Sunday. She’s the best Thief Master in the business. She made me the one who lays the Benefactors’ golden eggs. They have to know I’m the only merc out there with the guts to do whatever it takes to get them what they want.”
The cool, calculating look returns to Carter’s eyes. He purses his lips into a thin hard line. He pauses a moment, then says, “So bloody arrogant. So convinced you’re irreplaceable.”
The stone nestled in its pouch, still tucked inside my shirt, could wipe that smirk off his face, but I have orders. No one but Fagin and my client can know about the diamond, or I won’t be paid.
“The six-month waiting list for the privilege of employing me says I am.” I flash a satisfied grin. “If you’re delusional enough to think there will be some sort of comeuppance for me because I’ve almost tainted your perfect mission record, you’ll be disappointed.”
Behind me, one of the girls emits a low gasp. The navigator, trapped in his seat because there’s nowhere else to go, steals a sideways glance at the commander before burying his nose in his work again. Nico’s shoulders quiver, giving me the impression that he’s working hard to stifle his laughter. The only sign of emotion from Carter is a slight tremor at the corner of his right eye.
“One of these days,” he says, “you’ll find yourself in tight spot with no way out. Be careful of the bridges you burn, girl. You might need me someday.”

Chapter 3
There are three types of time travelers: First are the Observers, tedious little analytical researchers tasked with cultural intelligence gathering for no other purpose than simply knowing things. Second are the Restorers, highly specialized experts in science, anthropology, and social structure who focus on fixing planet-threatening climate shifts, eradicating poverty and, in general, working to ensure humans don’t go extinct out of stupidity. Third are the Mercenaries who, for the right price, will steal your grandfather’s fortune out from under him.
Two of these groups are sanctioned by the Global Temporal Congress—the GTC—as time travelers for the advancement and protection of humankind. It doesn’t take a Hawking to figure out which of us fall outside legal boundaries. Give me a straightforward thief any day of the week. The smarmy politicians who take bribes to overlook our existence while publicly condemning the “mercenary scourge” are the real crooks. The greedy ridiculously easy to buy. But aren’t we all? Corruption is simply a matter of degrees.
The adrenaline from the Florentine Diamond job waned halfway through the time leap home. I’m tired. Hungry. Cross. Before collapsing in bed tonight, there’s my fee to collect for carrying this rock across nine hundred years.
La Taverne de l’Fagin is filled with people. It’s always crowded because the food is good and the apartment rents are reasonable. The ambience is old world New Orleans French Quarter; a slow and easy respite from the crushing pace of twenty-sixth century life. It’s four storeys high with iron lace balconies overlooking a gallery of pub tables below. At Fagin’s the liquor is top-shelf, and the clientele notoriously tight-lipped. Here, anyone wanting an unsavory job done can usually find a willing merc to take it on.
Assignments of the murder-for-hire variety are a different animal. Fagin hates the trouble that comes with contract killing. If it’s an assassin’s skills you seek, she’ll send you packing in a hurry.
I spot Nico as I come in the door. He’s settled himself at a corner table by the kitchen. He raises an empty glass to me — his usual invitation to buy me a drink. As much as I’d love to drag him up to my apartment for post-mission cavorting, someone else has caught my eye, so I wave him off for now.
A skinny fair-haired girl, no more than nine or ten, sits on a wooden bench just to the right of the red-carpeted grand staircase. Her fingers repeatedly smooth the skirt of doll with a fine porcelain face. The child is dressed in the uniform issued to all new arrivals: a light blue jumpsuit that zips up the front. Her legs are short, so the cuff of each leg is doubled up on itself several times.
I sit on the other end of the bench. Not too close, though; I don’t want to frighten her. I recognize the look in her eyes all too well. It’s the wide-eyed stare of someone plucked from a time long passed and dropped into the fantastically strange Twenty-Sixth century. This time is both amazing and overwhelming.
We sit in silence, playing a sideways game of peek-a-boo. When I catch her looking at me, she looks away. When she catches me out, I do the same.
“Comment ça va?” I ask, leaning toward her, so she can hear me over the buzz of patrons eating and drinking at nearby tables.
Her brow furrows. I knew it was a long shot that she might speak French. I ask again, this time in English. “How are you?”
She shrugs as she averts her eyes and hugs the toy closer. I decide to try a different tactic.
“Your doll is very beautiful.”
I’m paid for the compliment with a shy smile. I slide a bit closer to her.
“When I was a girl, I wished for a fine doll like this one. But where your doll is golden-haired and wears a green silk gown, the one I wanted was raven-haired and wore a crimson dress.” She’s watching me out of the corner of her eye, so I pause and give a small sigh for dramatic effect before continuing. “She was a rare beauty, this doll, with rouged porcelain cheeks, and