Everything was different: his DNA, his vocabulary, his range of expertise, his stance, muscle development, comprehension. He had even studied Shakespeare, or at least Felix Smart had.

To be or not to be, my little Riley. In your case, I am undecided. It occurred to Garrick that there might be some danger lurking in this facility in which he had materialized, though Smart’s memories assured him that the sole sentry was a young girl, a slip of a thing who one would imagine to be relatively harmless. And yet Smart’s memories told him that she was an accomplished combatant who had performed most admirably in the City of Angels.

And she wears the last Timekey, he remembered. Even though Smart’s memories had emerged from the wormhole intact, his Timekey lay like a cinder on his chest.

Do not underestimate the girl, Garrick told himself, or unto dust will be your own destination.

Garrick planted himself firmly in the real world and cast his eyes around. This was a strange place; windowless walls were lined with colored ropes and wall-mounted machinery.

Cables and servers, the electricity flowing between his new nerve endings informed him.

The gory evidence of Garrick’s passage from the past was evident: blood striped the walls and lay in congealing splashes on tabletop machinery.

“Riley,” he said, testing his voice. “Riley, my son. I have come for you. I know where you are incarcerated. The futurist Smart showed me.”

Garrick headed toward the machinery. This is a laptop, he thought, tip-tapping the keyboard. How charming.

There would be time for such fancies later, but for now he must release Riley, retire to a safe crib, then let the boy bask in his master’s new glory.

There was no obvious sign of Miss Savano. Perhaps the violence of his arrival had done her in?

Or perhaps she lies in wait?

Garrick forced himself to concentrate. He moved to the wall, squinting through the smoke and flashing lights down the red-bricked hallway to the jumble of containers.

There. Look!

An arm was sticking out from the crawl space below the boxes. The fingers twitched spasmodically and the head resting on that arm wasn’t moving. One eye was fully closed, the other glazed and swollen.

That little periwinkle is a shade from death. I will nab my boy, then extinguish her final spark on the way out.

Garrick moved quickly down the corridor, feeling better than he had in decades. The trip through the wormhole had purged his system. He felt like a giddy whelp about to shinny his first drainpipe.

Another challenge lay before him, a challenge for the old Albert Garrick that was. Not the new model.

Version 2.0, he thought, then pinched the skin on his own forearm to force concentration.

The challenge was a keypad for the electronic lock.