She suddenly realized that if Jude had not abandoned her here, she might never come back. Why had she left on this particular day? Dimitri was officially on leave, but tomorrow he had to return to his tour of duty. That was the moment she was running from.
“You’re just stressed out, kiddo,” he said.
Everywhere she went, no matter what she did, people always called her a kid. And why should Dimitri not? He had finished college and graduated with distinction, fought in a war, come back a local hero. He still believed Ariel was seventeen, and had no knowledge of what she’d done. She couldn’t explain it to him.
“Yeah,” she said. “Sure, I was just kidding. It would be nice, though, if time travel existed, wouldn’t it?”
He smiled and walked on.
She stopped. She had traveled with Jamie when the singer was nineteen, and then (at his request) dropped him back off without any promise of returning, without any proof of their travels. He had wanted it that way, but it must have been terrible for him to have seen so much and not be able to tell a soul.
History would spin out as it was supposed to: Dimitri Reynolds would achieve greatness, and Thomas Huxley would die, alone, because of her. Unless she lived for five hundred years, she could do nothing to stop it. Her life was winding down to days, hours, minutes.
“Di, if I could prove it to you,” she said, “would you believe me?”
“Sure, whatever you want, kiddo. Race you back home!” He dashed away. Ariel glanced over her shoulder to make sure no white-suited Celestials were behind her, then flailed on after him, wondering in a casual way if history made mistakes once in awhile.
3.
A car’s headlights cut through a downtown avenue.
The rain that streamed down in a drizzle all evening had now vanished; instead, it left the clear, inky skies of twilight. The streetlights winked on with a coppery glow, throwing shadows and a pinkish hue onto the asphalt.
On either side of the yellow Camaro were brick office buildings and restaurants, their windows shining with bright colors, like television sets.
A light up ahead turned red, and the driver eased the brake and stopped.
The ’76 Camaro was the only car at the intersection. Someone must have pressed a walk button, or the light was timed: she couldn’t remember which. And no wonder, since it had been over a year since she last drove through this road.
The light changed, and she drove on.
So she did think it was real? She tilted her head, watching the city pass by her windshield. Yes. It had been several hours and she had not once thought otherwise. But every minute, a little of it slipped away. Could she have dreamed it? It was certainly possible...
But then she thought of that journalist and his distraught fiancée, and knew otherwise. Occam’s razor: The simplest explanation is usually the best one. Ariel’s razor: If you think it happened, it did.
She tapped the steering wheel and turned up the radio. R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion” was playing.
“Great song, don’t you think?” she said.
She glanced at the passenger seat. Empty. All of this road, and no journalists to pass the time with. She sighed and pushed her pedal to the floor.
Six o’clock passed before she reached the house she wanted. She knocked on the door and put her hands in her pockets, waiting. After a moment the door opened, revealing a teenage girl with ringlets of curly brown hair.
“Ariel!” said Marissa. “What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you.” Ariel pushed past her, tossed her backpack by the couch, then flicked on the kitchen light. She leaned with against the kitchen sink and stared past her friend, who had never seen her in such a state. When Marissa asked what was wrong, Ariel just looked up at the clock above the stove.
Marissa tried again. “Ariel?”
Ariel looked at her friend, her eyes watery. “I haven’t seen you in a year.”
“What are you talking about? I saw you at school today. Where did you go, anyway? I thought you were coming to Sophia’s party.”
Ariel started talking, in a one-sided conversation that spanned about twenty minutes and three rooms. She tried to explain about time travel, Thomas Huxley, the betrayal of her comrades, everything.
“A dream,” said Marissa, when she finished.
Ariel sat on the floor against her best friend’s bed. She had one hand out, and Marissa was painting her nails. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand: 7:08 p.m.
“No,” Ariel murmured. “It was real. Real as sitting here with you.”
“Dreams can be realistic.”
“Fine. Pull that notebook out of my bag.”
Marissa grabbed Ariel’s leather satchel, found a red school notebook, and flipped it open. On dozens of lined pages, she saw Ariel’s neat handwriting in blue ink detailing notes, charts, dates and times. She saw a diagram of the Titanic, then turned the page and glanced at an account of watching parts of Rome burn to the ground.
“It’s very imaginative,” said Marissa, hesitantly.
“It’s a few things that happened to me in the past year. I’ve checked some of the facts, and everything’s true. It’s pages and pages of work. Did I do that in one night?”
“You just put this together, didn’t you?” said Marissa, grinning. “Is this a prank?”
One look at Ariel’s face, however, assured her she was not. Ariel had never played practical jokes. She was the most serious person Marissa knew.
She turned to the next page of the journal. A sketch of Vincent van Gogh, with a note: Crazy but pleasant. Remind him to draw that starry night scene. “Some dreams, then, Airy. How could you travel in time, again?”
“I had a pocket watch that could take me to other places, other times.”
“So what happened to it?”
She sat back, her gaze distant. “Someone took it.”
Marissa sat back. Ariel had arrived in a black pilot’s jacket that closed at the throat, dark pants, and matching Converse sneakers. But she also had several curious items, and their historical accuracy passed a quick Google check: a samurai sword made in fourteenth-century Japan; a bracelet made in seventeenth-century Italy; an amulet from ancient Egypt.
If she had made this up, she was doing one hell of a job.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Marissa. “I really don’t. But that friend with the time machine, or whatever—can’t you write him a letter? Ask him to come back for you?”
Ariel quickly pointed out all the flaws in the plan: any letter she wrote had five hundred years to get lost. Major overhauls to the Internet and postal service would occur. How could she get it through?
“Well, I don’t know. Sometimes artifacts can get saved. Do you know anyone who becomes famous?”
4.
Soon after his sister got back, Dimitri packed his Army gear into a chest, locked it, and carried it out to the car. When he reached the driveway, he turned and saw Ariel standing on the front porch, her arms folded. It was dark, the stars twinkling in the sky. He had to be ready to leave for Iraq the following morning.
“I’ll write to you,” he called, from the driveway.
Ariel didn’t reply.
“Come on, Ariel. I’ll be fine.”
She knew that. And even if he hadn’t been called up to serve, he still would have volunteered for this mission. Most people couldn’t handle a war, couldn’t deal with the endless violence and mayhem, but he was born for it. All he ever talked about since he was young was being a soldier.
“One more year overseas,” he said. “Maybe two, at the most. Then I’ll come back, and I can conquer the world.”
If he only knew.
“When you’re done with high school, you can enlist,” he said. “We need medics.”
She looked away. “You don’t believe that I’m a time traveler, do you?”
“Are you still going on about that?”
Ariel bit her lip.
“Here,” he said, pu
lling out a vest. “Take this. We got new flak jackets last year; these are obsolete.”
“A bulletproof vest?” she said, her eyes widening. She took the heavy jacket. “This would be great. I’ve got this friend who attracts bullets like crazy. They mostly go for his head, though...”
He crossed his arms, grinning.
“Thank you, Di.” She threw her arms around him. “You are awesome.”
“All right. I need to finish packing.”
“Fine.” She pushed a strand of hair back. “I can’t go in the military, though. For … lots of reasons.”
He only smiled and turned his attention back to his equipment.
Ariel walked back to her room, still clutching the vest, and put it on her bed. She took out a piece of lined paper, thinking.
Letters lived on after people died, and a famous family could preserve an heirloom. If only she could find a way to convince Dimitri to take it.
On an envelope, she wrote, “Emily Montag: Please deliver. From October 17, 2007. To be opened June 19, 2507, by Jamie Parsons.”
Inside, she wrote only two words:
Find me.
At nine o’clock, Ariel slipped downstairs for dinner. She filled a plate and walked to the table, not having thought of anything yet to persuade her brother, but when she saw her mother’s newspaper lying to the side, she had an idea.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and rushed to her room.
Jude had left her backpack with her. She pulled it out and found, tucked away toward the bottom, the next day’s newspaper. She had never really done more than glance over it. When he asked her to join the Order, Jude had brought it to her to convince her of time travel. As if she needed convincing.
She took it to Dimitri just as he finished eating.
“Ha. They must have printed this early,” he said. “Either that, or it’s a good fake. Did you make it at your school’s newspaper office?”
She snatched it back. “You know we don’t have a newspaper. If you’re not going to take this seriously—”
“Fine, I’m listening.”
“If I can’t get back, a lot of people are going to die. I need you to take a letter and promise to give it to your future children. They’ll pass it down until one of your descendants lives in a certain time. Do you understand?”
“Vaguely,” he said.
Ariel pulled the envelope out of her jacket, holding it at arm’s length. “Promise me you’ll give it to your kids.”
“So if I do that, eventually a time traveler will come for you?” His eyes narrowed. “Are you feeling okay?”
“If you don’t believe me, fine. Just promise me you’ll do it.”
Dimitri glanced at the newspaper.
“Don’t play the lottery numbers,” she warned.
He sighed. “Okay, pretending I believe you—what happens to me in the future?”
“It’s hard to explain. You become a great leader. To many people, you’re seen as a hero.”
“Do you think so?”
She thought of the secret police, of a young king being shot, of cars that soar on air and crash and kill, or a journalist shot in the head for his work in the secret police—all under the banner of Dimitri Reynolds, the father of the new world.
“You’re my brother,” she said. “Nothing more.”
He opened the paper with some curiosity, then dismissed it with the shake of his head. “Keep your letter, Ariel. This is all a bit too crazy for me.” And he walked out of the room.
For a long time, Ariel sat in her room, thinking. She opened a music box that would, in a few centuries, belong to Princess Emily.
Finally she drifted off to sleep, and was awakened by someone’s shouts. Dimitri appeared at her door, yelling. She couldn’t quite gather what he was saying, but once sentence made its way into her brain:
“Ariel, just for fun, I bought a lottery ticket with the winning numbers in your paper—”
She froze. History told that Dimitri came across a large sum of money in his twenties; that he would invest it, and would eventually spend it on rebuilding the world after a devastating war...
He promised to take the letter. He promised to believe every word of what she said as true, and he would have his children pass it on if he had to mandate it in his will, because he had just won three million dollars.
Ariel had, more or less, directly caused the Celestial Federation.
She pulled out the letter and gave it to him, and long after he had gone, she sat down, confused. And she realized that even though Dimitri had taken the note, there was no guarantee it would ever reach Jamie.
5.
June 19, 2507
Morning dawned over central Tenokte, and in the living room of a musician’s mansion, a woman with wavy blond hair lay asleep on a couch.
The room had a flat TV covering part of one wall, a couch and coffee table, a wide window, and a guitar case leaning against a closet door. A cell phone lay on the table.
The woman, normally an early riser, did not pay any attention to the world around her. Even as the sun flooded the room with light, Zoë Martínez did not stir.
The TV flickered on at eight o’clock for the morning reports, and a female anchor greeted the sleeping pilot, and the rest of the Celestial Federation. Zoë turned over at the low drone of chatter, only half-awake; and then she fell back asleep, catching only some of the words as her dreams slipped away like a mist.
“As the princess is not old enough to rule, Commander Edward Delacroix will serve as leader until her eighteenth birthday ... The king was buried in Tenokte’s local cemetery yesterday afternoon...”
Jamie walked into the room and paused to watch the footage of the funeral procession while sipping a mug of coffee.
“...the World Council has decided to bypass a trial, and found Damien Peter Martínez guilty of assassinating King Richard II. Martínez will be executed in two days, just before dawn…”
Zoë sat upright, fully awake.
“Why do they always use three names for assassins?” Jamie pondered aloud. “First, middle, last. I’ve never understood it.”
Without looking at him, Zoë said, “People only say your full name when you’re in trouble. You know—when your parents are angry, they’ll yell all three names. Well, when you’re an assassin, you’re always in trouble. People are always angry.”
“Huh,” he said. “I never heard my parents say my name. Not even once.” He slipped into the kitchen.
Zoë grabbed her phone and followed him, then paused in the doorway and crossed her arms. “You’ve always been like this. Won’t let anything upset you, even when it’s your best friend who’s about to die. You were making jokes when people were dying of the falling-sickness.”
“Yep,” he said. He was mixing a bowl of pancake batter, and poured some on the griddle. It sizzled, and the smell wafted throughout the kitchen. A rock star cooking breakfast: the thought struck Zoë as bizarre, and she sighed, frustrated.
“Doesn’t it bother you that he’s going to be killed?” she asked.
“I’ll survive, Zo.” He opened and closed various cabinets, shifting cups and plates around. She noticed with some surprise that he had already dressed; he usually didn’t get up until well after noon.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“What do you mean? I’m fine.”
“Exactly. You’ve never been ‘fine.’ Not as long as I can remember.”
Jamie turned. “Sorry if I’m not weeping, but he’s not going to die.”
She stared at him. “I’m leaving,” she said, after a moment. “I can’t stay here while they kill him.”
“So where are you going?”
“Paris. I used to spend summers there.” She turned her phone over in her hands. “Jamie, I may not come back for a long time.”
“Still no word from Huxley?”
She shook her head. “No.”
He flipped his pancakes, and Zoë’s cell phone started
to ring. She answered it. “Thomas?”
A pause. “I think we may have the same problem,” came a voice.
Zoë shifted the phone to her other ear. “Who is this?”
“Audrey Huxley. Thomas isn’t returning my calls. Is he with you?”
Zoë’s mouth fell open. “No. I haven’t seen him since last night.”
“Oh. Let me know if you hear from him, okay?”
“I will. Bye.” Zoë snapped her phone shut, then looked at Jamie. “He seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.”
Before he could answer, Jamie’s cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and answered it as he walked out of the room, his voice a low murmur.
Zoë sat down at the table and watched the clock tick. Each strike of the hand was a lost second, and before long minutes, hours, and days would slip away. It was 8:15 a.m. on a Sunday morning: right now people would be walking to stores or to church in the summer streets, mourning a beloved king, spreading news of an execution.
At a time like this, Zoë thought she should be feeling something besides numbness or shock. Some sadness, perhaps. She bit her lip and thought of Thomas.
Jamie walked back in and tossed the phone onto the coffee table. “That was Emily Montag,” he said.
Zoë wiped her eyes. “The princess?”
Jamie grabbed a coat and slipped on a pair of sunglasses, then checked the time on a pocket watch. “Sorry, Zo. I’ll have to explain later. Have some breakfast, and stay as long as you want. I’ll be back soon.”
“Wait, why do you have a jacket? It’s going to be eighty degrees out today.”
“I’ll need it where I’m going.” He opened the door. “You deserve better than this, and I’m going to fix things for you. I’m going to fix everything.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
Zoë walked over and pulled the door open again, then stepped out into the warm summer morning. She stared out into the street, with the tangle of Tenokte’s skyscrapers and above-ground tunnels in the distance. Jamie was nowhere to be seen.
Flyday Page 16
