He sighed, then waited until a group of visitors passed before giving his answer. “You’re looking for Lt. Kira Watson.”
She brightened. “Thank you. That’s all I need.”
3.
Commander Edward Delacroix managed most of the military and internal security matters in the Celestial Federation. He had a silver beard and faded blue eyes, and looked a bit older than his age—sixty-one. He had been only at his current post for a few years, and he enjoyed it immensely.
Well, most of it.
The World Council had issued a state of emergency after the king’s death, and at the moment, there was no ruler. The government was in absolute chaos. He sat in his Tenokte office, on the phone with the Council to try to set up a meeting, when he heard the door close. He looked up, but no one was there.
“Bonjour,” came a voice.
He turned. A girl wearing lime-green sunglasses stood next to him.
“No.” He dropped the phone, then pulled out a blaster from its holster on his belt.
Ariel was ready for this. She held her pocket watch in one hand, her finger poised on the fob at the top. “Try to shoot me and I’m gone. Which one of us is faster, do you think?”
The Commander stared at her, then started to laugh. At Ariel’s incredulous look, he said, “Déjà vu, Madame Time Traveler. We’ve done this before.”
“When?”
“The Lunitron, four years ago. I was only a military captain then. A small, elegant ship was moving through space, and then you appeared, out of nowhere.”
“Where’s Lt. Watson? This is her office, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes. She’s out at the moment.”
“Why is she tracking me?”
“Because I wanted to find you. Why else would a person be tracked? Ah, and here you are. What a marvel.”
“Listen,” she said, “I don’t know if you can comprehend this, but whatever I did to attract your attention, I haven’t done it yet. I don’t know what you know about me, but I want you to forget it. Stop sending agents after me.”
“Agents?”
“One caught up with me in ancient Rome. He’s alive, but the next one won’t be.”
He gazed at her, impressed. “My, all those years, and you still look exactly the same. The lieutenant has temporarily suspended her project due to the tragedy. If you’d like, I can tell her you came.”
“Just tell her not to follow me again.”
Delacroix blinked, and the girl was gone. He picked up his phone, and heard a voice on the other end: “Sir? Commander, are you there?”
He would have to tell the lieutenant about this new development, but things had become a bit more frantic than he expected. “I’m here,” he said. “Now, about that meeting…”
4.
Zoë was less than pleased when Thomas walked into the hotel room at nearly 10 a.m.
“Where were you?” she asked. Her eyes were red, and her hair was messy from sleep.
He closed the door. “I just went out for a walk. I sent you a message, didn’t I?”
“I was worried. I turned on the news, and there it was. Over and over again. They’re saying that the king died.”
Thomas didn’t reply.
“They want to kill Damien as well. They said he confessed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not. You see this every day. Death, disaster, news at eleven.”
“Zoë—”
“He’s innocent,” she said. “I know he is. Did you see him shoot the king? Were there cameras pointed in that direction?”
“I—” He faltered. No, he hadn’t seen Damien fire a shot. No one had. But that didn’t mean anything.
“I know Damien better than anyone else does, and I know he didn’t do that.”
He grabbed the remote and turned on the news.
“—police speculate that Martínez killed the king in anger over a ruling that his band’s album could not be released. The ruling was made just two weeks ago by the king’s censorship panel.”
Thomas looked back at Zoë. “They haven’t decided anything yet.”
“Yes, they have. They haven’t said it, but they have.”
He realized she was probably right. Still, it seemed odd. Damien had confessed, but it didn’t seem like the quiet drummer to pick up a weapon over banned music. There had to be more to the motive, if Damien even was the killer.
Thomas decided he’d call his studio and say that yes, he would investigate the story after all. If he could prove the police wrong, well, that could placate Zoë and very well save Damien’s life.
He walked over to the bed and sat down. “I ran into my dad this morning, and he invited us to dinner. My parents really want to meet you.”
She didn’t reply.
“I was thinking—”
“I felt sick this morning,” Zoë said. “You weren’t here.”
That surprised him: his fiancée had always been healthy. Then again, no one could take news of a loved one’s upcoming death without feeling totally bewildered and upset. “It’s just stress,” he said.
“Maybe.” She looked down. “I, uh, called a lawyer. You know, for the trial and everything. This guy was one of my dad’s. He’s really good.”
“That’s great, Zo.”
She grabbed her jacket. “Come on. They gave me a visitor’s pass; I can see Damien.”
Chapter Four
June 16, 2507, 1 p.m.
Biochemical Pathways, comprised of Jamie Parsons, Damien Martínez, and Kyle Jones, was the most famous rock band in almost a century.
Formed in 2501, the group released three albums, won two Grammys, and played at sold-out shows for several years. Jamie performed vocals and guitar, Kyle played bass, and Damien rocked out on the drums. (Zoë, the band’s pilot, sometimes filled in live as a guest synth player.) But when Kyle died in a car accident—shortly before the band finished their fourth record—Jamie and Damien decided not to replace him.
After the band broke up, Damien renewed his EMT training and started to work out of a hospital. Could he be capable of murder after having his life and music career destroyed so abruptly? With the album (which included Kyle’s last recordings) struck down, it was certainly possible.
As Thomas and Zoë received ID tags and a prison guard escorted them to the elevator, the journalist pondered the implications. The king’s death had thrown the government into panic: there was no ruler ready to replace him. Damien would almost certainly get the death penalty, which would devastate Zoë and Jamie, and break the hearts of an entire generation of fans. All over an album the government’s censorship panels found unsuitable for the public.
Thomas stepped into the elevator, and the doors closed. He looked over at Zoë, but her eyes were cast down. The elevator jolted upward.
“Assassination,” said the guard. “That’s a pretty big deal.”
Zoë glanced at her fiancé, but didn’t speak.
“So, he’s your, what—brother?”
“Yes,” said Zoë.
“Must be tough, with the execution and all.”
“There won’t be an execution,” she said coolly.
The elevator stopped, and Thomas grabbed the rail.
“I liked their music,” said the guard. “Especially that song with the French lyrics.” He turned to Thomas, then seemed puzzled. “Have I seen you before?”
As the doors opened, Thomas thought of his TV broadcasting. “Most likely,” he replied, stepping out.
The hallways of the prison had been painted sea-green, and the dim fluorescent lighting on the ceiling cast strange shadows over the halls. The guard walked cheerfully along, swinging his nightstick as he passed barred and empty cells.
According to legend, Dimitri Reynolds designed the prison himself, though his followers hadn’t finished it until after long his death. It was certainly secure: in four hundred years of use, no one had ever escaped.
The guard unlocked a gate, and held it
open for the two visitors. Thomas walked in, but Zoë hesitated a minute.
“If I don’t see him, then it hasn’t happened,” she said, staring ahead.
Thomas held out his hand. “I’ll be right here.”
She took it, and stepped inside. The gates clicked shut behind them, and they walked on.
“After the last door,” he whispered to Zoë, “there’ll be a keypad activated by a numeric code, a fingerprint reading, then a retina scan.”
She looked at him, surprised. “How do you know?”
“I did an interview here once,” he said. At least, he thought he did. Why else would the inside of a prison seem so familiar?
When the codes had been entered and the door swung open, they walked inside, led by the guard. Zoë smiled: Thomas had been right about the security system.
After a moment, the guard said, “Here we go. Cell 45, Damien Martínez.” He turned to Zoë. “You have fifteen minutes.”
Zoë walked toward the bars, her heels clicking on the floor, and peered inside.
From where he stood, Thomas could see part of the tiny cell’s shadowy interior: a chair, a cot. A man inside the room looked up. He was twenty-four, one year older than Zoë, with dark hair and rugged good looks.
“Hey,” said Zoë.
Damien stood, walking toward the bars. “Hey yourself,” he said. “It’s been awhile.”
“Not that long. They told me—”
“That I’m going to die.”
“No, no, that’s not decided yet.” Her eyes grew watery, and she blinked back tears. Then she turned away and motioned toward Thomas. “This is my fiancé, Thomas Huxley. You’ve met.”
The prisoner squinted at Thomas. “They let a reporter in?”
“Lt. Watson gave us special permission,” said Thomas, quietly. He thought he saw a flash of copper to his right, blinked, and it was gone. How strange. It looked just like—
“Do you think I did it?” Damien asked his sister.
“You confessed.”
“But do you think I killed him?”
She looked down. “No. I don’t.”
“You’re probably the only one,” Damien replied. “If I die—”
“Don’t say that!”
“But if I do, I’m going to go down in history. So don’t worry about me.”
Thomas hadn’t thought of that possibility. Damien Martínez, once a drummer in a well-known band, suddenly finds himself a no-name paramedic, and wants his name in the history books…
Zoë bit her lip, her eyes watering. “I called one of dad’s old lawyers. Milton Apollo—remember him?”
A pause. “Zo, I didn’t get arrested for—”
“He’s done murders before,” she interrupted. “He’s gotten people off.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I’m pleading guilty.”
“Damien!” She clenched her fists, then composed herself. “Will you talk to him?”
“Sure.”
She relaxed. “All right, then.”
For a few minutes they talked about things they had done when they were young, their parents, their memories of the band. Thomas felt uncomfortable listening, and he walked over to the guard.
“I have seen you before!” said the guard. “You’re that reporter.”
“Yeah.”
“I saw that bit you did with—” The guard suddenly stopped.
Thomas looked up. The overhead lights flickered, then went out, darkening the hallway. Zoë and Damien’s conversation had stopped.
“Zoë?” he called.
No response.
“What happened?” came Damien’s voice. “What’s going on?”
Ariel appeared next to Thomas, making him jump. Her eyes were partially obscured by the colored glasses, making her irises appear blank. She held a flashlight, and flicked it on.
“I’ll tell you if he’s innocent,” she said.
Before Thomas could react, Ariel strode forward, vanishing for a second and then reappearing on the other side of the bars of Damien’s cell. The prisoner jumped back, shocked.
As the light flickered slightly, Thomas looked around. The guard to his left had frozen in place, his eyes open, and Zoë stood immobile in front of the bars, one arm outstretched.
Thomas’s heart pounded. He let out a breath, and it came out a mist.
“Ariel, what did you do?” he yelled. He knew that she could move in time, but not stop it entirely. Or stop it for some people, and not others.
“Is this some sort of trick?” Damien yelled. “Interrogation technique, or—?”
Ariel ignored the prisoner. “Did you try to kill the king?”
“Yes.”
She threw the flashlight down. It hit the concrete floor with a clatter, casting bright patches of light and then shadows as it spun. Then it stopped, illuminating Damien. He stared at her, his eyes wide.
“You’re lying,” she said.
“Ariel!” Thomas yelled. The prisoner and the time traveler ignored him.
Damien looked at the frozen figures. “I see,” he said to Ariel. “You’ve drugged me.”
She leaned in close. “Damien, if you tell them you did this, they’re going to kill you. Whatever they’ve threatened to do, they’re not going to try it. Help me out. Give me something to look for, anything, so I can find the killer.”
“I’m the killer.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Damien didn’t respond, and Ariel tilted her head. “I see.” She turned to Thomas, who stared back at her.
“Sorry,” she said. “Just an idea.”
And she vanished. The lights turned back on, washing the hallway with light. Thomas stepped back, blinking.
“—the Flyday celebrations,” said the guard, nonchalant. “It was really good. I—” He looked around, then saw Thomas standing ten feet away. He seemed confused. “Mr. Huxley?”
“Damien? Are you all right?” Zoë asked.
“Yeah,” the prisoner replied. He looked stunned, but blinked and regained his composure. “I’ll be okay, sis.”
Zoë glanced at her fiancé, who had turned pale. “Thomas?”
Thomas tried to say something, but nothing came out. His whole body went cold. Sitting ten inches away from Damien’s foot was a flashlight.
He felt dizzy again, and the last thing he saw was Zoë rushing over toward him.
2.
Emily Montag sat at the head of a long table, with the six members of the World Council at the sides. Commander Delacroix sat at the other end. Emily slouched in the chair, one hand to her mouth, and looked off to the side.
“Princess, I know this is hard for you,” said a councilwoman, “but we need to start thinking about your future. Your brother wasn’t just a king. He was your guardian. With his absence, we need to find someone to look after you.”
She moved her eyes to the council. “Oh, you’re joking, right? I’ve been taking care of myself for years. I’ve been sitting at most of Richard’s meetings for his entire reign. I know I’m still young, but I know how to run the government.”
“With all due respect, Princess,” said Commander Delacroix, “we can’t leave the world in the hands of a sixteen-year-old girl.”
Emily sat back. “It just doesn’t seem real. I was speaking to him last night. How can he be dead?”
“All of us are grieving,” said another council member. “We’ve found the assassin, princess, and we will deal with him swiftly.”
“No,” she said. “I saw what happened. Damien Martínez wasn’t the killer.”
“He confessed to the crime.”
“I know he confessed, but I saw the man who shot him. He…” She balled her hands into fists, then relaxed. “It wasn’t Martínez. I’m sure of it.”
“Princess,” said the councilwoman, gently, “can you really trust your memory in a situation like that?”
She didn’t reply.
“We know that you have suffered a terrible loss, and you need time to recov
er. According to the law, no one under the age of eighteen can assume the throne. We will find a guardian for you. In the meantime, since you live in Tenokte, your case will be referred to the lieutenant here. She will assign someone to take care of you.”
“No. I refuse.”
“We don’t require your consent.”
Emily sat back. “So who’s going to rule?”
“We have assigned Commander Edward Delacroix temporary leadership status. He will be taking on the king’s role for now. And, Princess? We are truly sorry for your loss.”
The Council members stood and filed out, leaving Emily with the Commander. This was the main meeting room of the palace, and she’d listened to countless discussions here. No one had paid any real attention to her until now, and only to sweep her out of sight.
Commander Delacroix walked over to her. “Things will get better, Princess.”
Emily glared at him and walked out. She headed to her room, then waited until she could close the door behind her before she allowed herself to cry.
3.
Thomas felt a sharp white light over him and heard voices around him, as if from a dream.
“Nerves,” said someone.
“Maybe it’s the falling-sickness?”
“Nah, they haven’t had a case of that in years.”
“Has he ever had a concussion, something like that?”
Then Zoë’s voice: “He had a brain injury a few years ago.”
His eyes snapped open. They were in one of the offices of the jail, and half a dozen people were staring at him. He sat up.
“He’s alive!” one of the cops said.
“Thanks,” said Thomas, dryly. He put a hand to his head, then turned to Zoë. “What happened?”
“You just sort of passed out,” she said. “We called for an ambulance, but considering that half the people here have medical training, they recommended that we wait and see how you felt when you woke up.” She peered at him. “How do you feel?”
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