6.
Thomas sat in his cell, drifting off from lack of sleep. The lights were always on in his cell, and he couldn’t tell if it was night or day. He wore the regulation white clothes of citizens being held by the secret police. There wasn’t a cot in the room; just soft walls and floors. They’d let him keep Ariel’s MP3 player, and it played strange (but soothing) music.
Suddenly he heard a murmur outside. He put his ear to the wall, and could hear snippets of conversation. They were discussing an upcoming death, but not the drummer’s. He flipped through the gadget’s functions, then set it on record. The screen went dark, but the device was still surreptitiously listening.
“—seem like an accident, if possible. Maybe a car crash.”
Thomas’s heart thudded.
“Commander—” Kira’s voice.
“You’re right; getting rid of her too soon would arouse suspicion. Maybe not right away, then. But at least before her coronation.” A pause. “Will there be any problems?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.”
Just then, the door opened. Commander Delacroix walked in, his eyes meeting the prisoner’s for a moment. Thomas’s hair was tousled, and he was weary from lack of sleep.
Kira stood in one corner, her arms crossed.
“Hello, Mr. Huxley,” said the Commander. “I take it you have information about the red-haired girl?”
“Information? Oh, not really. She talked to me once. That’s it.”
The Commander nodded, then to Kira: “Full interrogation.”
She leaned over and whispered something in the man’s ear. Thomas caught only the word “agent.”
Delacroix reconsidered. “Partial interrogation, then. Let me know how it goes.” He walked out the door. Kira stayed for a moment.
“What’s a partial interrogation?” Thomas inquired.
“Just a few questions,” she replied, her eyes distant. “Answer them all, and you just might get out of here in one piece.” She frowned, then leaned to whisper in his ear: “I’m sorry. If I didn’t arrest you, he would have. I’ll get you out as soon as I can.” And she straightened, then strode out, closing the door behind her. It clicked, locked.
And Thomas heard the voices outside his door again:
“Here’s the deal. If he doesn’t know anything, you can let him go. Just get rid of the princess. Is that understood?”
Thomas couldn’t hear Kira’s response. He only heard muffled footfalls, and stopped the recording. He slipped the music player in his pocket. Would he get out of here in one piece? He leaned his head against the wall, wondering.
7.
Late in the night, Ariel slipped out the back door, just as the day’s rain turned into snow. Clouds swept in, covering the previously clear skies, and she had the impression that even the universe couldn’t make up its mind. She walked into the woods behind her house, looking up from time to time at the falling snowflakes, which fluttered and swirled in the air, then crunched underneath her boots.
A little after midnight, the snow dissolved into mist and fog, and in the silvery glow she could not tell where the earth ended and the sky began. So she wandered around, lost somewhere along the invisible horizon.
She made her way to the streets, glossy and slick with slush. A car stopped for a red light as she passed. She glanced up at the sky; it would be centuries before flying cars roamed them. As she passed the car, she heard a snippet of a radio broadcast: two people so far had died from accidents, due to the unseasonable weather. Death seemed to follow her like her shadow, flat and empty.
The light changed, and the car zoomed away.
Travel had been her life, her escape. She had never asked for help before, never needed it. And now what? She was alone.
When she was nearly home, a soft wind started blowing in her direction. Any other person might not have noticed it, but she turned, and saw a path of footprints in the snow.
On the edge of the street, under the lamplight and across from her house, stood a dark-haired man wearing a leather pilot’s jacket and jeans. He clasped a platinum pocket watch in his hand and wore a pair of gray sunglasses that blended in with the mist.
Ariel smiled. “Jamie Parsons, I’ve never been happier to see you.”
He shrugged. “Received an urgent call from the heir to the throne herself. And Dimitri Reynolds isn’t too hard to find. But what happened? Why do I have to find you?”
“You’re the one who reads minds,” she said.
He took off his glasses, then slipped him into his front coat pocket. “Fine. I’m listening.”
“Jamie, it’s a long story.”
“I see. You broke up someone’s engagement, you know. Zoë thinks you’re in love with her fiancé.”
“I’m not,” she said, blinking.
“I know that, but that hardly matters, does it? He’s missing, by the way.”
“Missing?”
“Zoë can’t find him. Come on.” He held up his platinum watch. “Or you can stay out here in the snow. What do you say?”
Ariel would have to ditch her scarf and fingerless gloves, and go back for her notebook, but she was nonetheless pleased. “I suppose I’d better take you back, or you’ll end up in the wrong century,” she joked. “Where to? The Tenokte prison, circa 2507?”
“No. A ship called the Halcyon.”
Ariel put out a hand to stop him, but before she could reach out, they had already arrived.
Chapter Fourteen
June 20, 2507
Princess Emily Montag glared at the dark-haired lieutenant watching her from the other side of a table. They sat in Kira’s Tenokte office, a white room with a glass window making up an entire wall.
“I made your call yesterday,” said Emily. “What is this all about?”
Kira was staring out the window. “Do you know that there’s a red-haired girl who keeps showing up where she shouldn’t?”
“Sure. The ghost of Dimitri Reynolds’ sister. It’s family legend.”
“What if she isn’t a ghost?”
Emily fell silent.
“She wrote a letter to a musician who didn’t exist five hundred years ago. You don’t find that strange?”
“It’s not a real letter,” said Emily. “It’s fake, of course.”
“Right.” The lieutenant paused. “Well, I found a family for you to stay with. They’ll take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Your highness, right now you’re not safe in Tenokte. There are people who might try to hurt you.”
“But I’m the only one who can lead the Federation.”
“The Council doesn’t agree.”
Emily crossed her arms.
“When you’re eighteen, you can be coronated. But for now, we need you to be out of sight, and safe. I need you to trust me.”
Emily was staring ahead. “Lieutenant, Damien Martínez didn’t try to kill my brother. He wouldn’t.”
“Emily, I know you like their music, but…”
“I saw the killer. I looked up right before the shots and … it wasn’t Damien.”
Kira sat down. “Are you sure? Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“The Council didn’t want to hear it. They all thought I must have been confused.”
“Emily, you did see something awful. It happened so quickly, and to your brother—”
“That’s just it,” she snapped. “If you saw someone pick up a gun and kill someone you loved, wouldn’t that be burned into your mind? Wouldn’t you always remember that?”
Kira paused. “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Yes.”
The lieutenant stood. “I will contact the Council and tell them what you’ve seen. And in the meantime, I’ll arrange for transportation for you.”
“No,” said Emily, eyes wide. “You can’t leave me.”
“Princess, the person I’m leaving you with would not allow any harm to come to you. I
would bet my life on it. Wait here. I’ll come back for you in ten minutes.”
Emily still was not consoled, but Lt. Kira Watson stood and walked out the door. When she closed it, Kira turned and saw Commander Delacroix standing in the hallway.
“How’d it go?”
“She’s convinced,” said Kira. “I’m having her taken to her guardian right away.”
“Good work. Who did you choose?”
“John Caxton. He’s my most trusted assistant.”
The Commander nodded. Kira had been his protégé since she graduated military school, and hadn’t ever disappointed him. “Very well. Carry on, Lieutenant,” he said, and walked away.
Kira clutched a file to her chest, then turned and walked down the hall. She slid a card through a slot in the wall and two panels opened, revealing another passageway.
After a moment she walked toward an interrogation room, the windows of which were half-hidden by slatted blinds. Inside the room, a journalist was handcuffed to a chair, expressionless. A uniformed officer spoke to him in a low voice. When the officer saw her, he excused himself and walked out, carefully closing the door behind him.
“Anything?” Kira asked.
“He says he doesn’t know where the girl is,” John Caxton replied.
“Do you believe that?”
“No. But it’s been a day and a half. Anyone else, I’d press on with, but him ... if he hasn’t said anything by now, he never will.”
“Will the Commander be convinced?”
“Yes. He left his release to your order.”
Kira stared through the glass. “Do you really think time travel exists, Caxton?”
“Yes. But I don’t think it matters.”
Her gaze didn’t leave the windows. “All these years, and he hasn’t changed. Caxton, can you follow my instructions, even if they go against Delacroix’s?”
“Captain? I’m in your squad. As long as no harm comes to the princess, I’ll do anything you say.”
Kira pondered that for a moment. She turned the knob and walked into the room, then sat down across from Thomas Huxley. Caxton stood at her side. The prisoner’s hair was tousled, and his eyes were tired. He followed the two Celestials’ movements but could not quite focus on them.
“Morning, Thomas,” she said, flipping through a folder. “I heard you haven’t been cooperating.”
He looked up at her, and didn’t reply.
“All we want is some information about this girl. Who is she? Where is she from?”
“I don’t know.”
Kira sat back and glanced at Caxton. “Well, if you won’t tell us anything, you might as well make yourself useful.” A white med kit sat on the table, and Kira opened it. “I suppose you know by now that you were a member of the secret police?”
“Yes,” said Thomas, his eyes narrowing.
“There’s only two ways a spy can leave the force,” she said, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves. “Death, no matter the cause, is a rather obvious reason. The second is a bit more tricky. The agent must ask for dismissal—because of illness or injury, for instance—and be granted it. Thomas, you have met neither of those conditions. Considering, therefore, your standing as an agent, you are being released. You won’t be charged with any crime.”
“Right,” he said, glancing at the med-kit, but it was just a white blur to him. He hadn’t brought his contact-lens solution to the party, and therefore didn’t have it when he was arrested, so when he took his lenses out to sleep he had to have them thrown away. “What are you doing?”
“We could call upon you at any time to ask you to carry out a mission,” Caxton explained. “And we have one in mind.”
“Kira, Damien isn’t your assassin,” said Thomas. “It’s a man named Jude Fawkes, born—”
Kira pulled a syringe out of the kit and held it level with the table. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Caxton grabbed him and put a hand over his mouth, and she slid the needle into Thomas’s arm. The prisoner tried to fight, but she pulled it out within seconds.
They let him go. He sat back, dazed.
“Just let me talk to Zoë,” he murmured. “I just wanted ... to tell her...”
He saw Kira and Caxton peering at him, then the chemicals took over, plunging him into a dreamless sleep.
2.
Zoë knocked on the door, then put her hands in her pockets. She stood on the steps in front of a well-kept house in a middle-class neighborhood. After a moment she raised a hand to knock again, but the inner door pulled open, and a woman in her forties stepped in front of the screen.
“Can I help—” said Mrs. Huxley, and then, recognizing the girl, put a hand to her mouth. “Come in, come in.” She held open the door, and Zoë stepped inside. “Make yourself at home. My husband’s at work, and Audrey’s at school—”
“I was hoping I could just talk to you,” said Zoë.
Mrs. Huxley nodded. “I’m so sorry, Zoë. They’re saying now that Damien might not have been the shooter.”
“Thomas thinks that.”
The woman nodded. “Sit down, please.” She walked into the kitchen to pour a cup of tea, and returned a moment later as Zoë sat on the couch. She handed her the mug.
“So you’re twenty-three? And a pilot,” said Mrs. Huxley, sitting down. “This must be a hard time for you.”
Zoë nodded. “I have to leave,” she said. “Thomas and I sort of had a falling-out, and I can’t find him. If you see him, could you tell him to call me?”
“Of course.” She reached out a hand. “If there’s anything else I can do, please, let me know.”
“There is one thing—” Zoë shook her head. “But I need to talk to Thomas first. Thank you, Mrs. Huxley. I should go.” She stood.
“Zoë, I don’t know you very well, but your parents made quite a splash. Your father was well-liked in Tenokte, even if he stayed here only briefly during his diplomatic work. I attended his funeral.”
She was taken aback. “I didn’t know.”
They sat down and talked for a few minutes, about their families, about everything they could think of. Zoë asked what Thomas was like as a child, and his mother showed her baby pictures. Zoë was amazed.
“Your mother was a prolific artist,” said Mrs. Huxley, rising. “Come see.” She led her into the hallway, where three framed paintings rested on the wall. The middle one, of a tugboat at sea, had a tiny signature at the bottom: Valerie Deschaine.
“I’ve never even seen this before,” said Zoë, gazing at it. “It’s beautiful.”
“My husband bought it years ago. It’s kind of like fate, don’t you think? You can have it, if you like.”
“I couldn’t. Just keep it here, so I can see it when I visit.”
Mrs. Huxley nodded. “You know, Thomas has always had the highest standards, and he thinks the world of you. You must really be something.”
Zoë stared at the picture of a tugboat lost at sea, and gave a sad smile. She wondered if she would ever see him again.
Her phone buzzed: an incoming call. She apologized and excused herself to answer it. Milton Apollo’s number. “Hello?”
“Zoë? It’s Apollo. They … they’re about to make the decision.”
3.
Milton Apollo walked with Zoë through the hallway of the courthouse.
“He wouldn’t plead not guilty. The best I could do was ask for a life sentence.”
“Did you get it?”
“Uh…”
Zoë sighed. “What about the forced confession? The lack of evidence?”
“It was a kangaroo court, Zo. Unanimous vote, 6-0, in favor of the death penalty. There was nothing I could do.”
“That’s it? All this, and you’re going to give up? The tape—?”
“They didn’t even look at the tape, and won’t permit an appeal. It’s over.” He stopped, standing at the doors of the courthouse. Outside were dozens of reporters and photographers.
“There’s got
to be something you can do,” she said.
He looked up at her. “I’m sorry.” A pause. “Where’s that cute boyfriend of yours?”
“We got in a fight.”
Apollo seemed taken aback. “Because of what I said?”
“No. Because of a lot of things.”
“I see.” He looked down, shaking his head. “You should reconsider that, my dear. I mean … the way things are going. No one else is going to stick with you like he did.” He looked at the doors. “You’re not going to get a bill. And they’re going to, uh, cremate the body, so you don’t have to worry about anything.”
Zoë was silently crying. “I see.”
“He’s headed back to his cell now. They’ll let him talk to the press, and to family. My advice? Visit him now, and don’t leave until you have to.” He picked up his briefcase, then walked through the doors, to a barrage of questions; the door closed, and everything was quiet.
Zoë stood there a moment, then finally asked a guard to escort her out a back door. She took a cab to the prison, leaning her head against the window. It was raining, just like her first day back in Tenokte. She sobbed, overcome with grief.
By the time she reached the prison and walked the long dark path that led to her brother, her makeup was ruined but she still kept her head high.
“Hey, you,” said Damien, from inside his cell.
She looked at him and started to cry.
“Don’t,” said Damien. “Listen, Zo, I’ll be fine. No Huxley?”
She just leaned her head on the bars. “I can’t lose you, not now. Thomas and I …”
“Yes?”
“Me … Thomas … we’re going to have a baby.”
“Really? That’s great! Congrats.”
She wiped her eyes.
“Zo, it’s fine. Really. You’re going to get through this.”
“Tell me you didn’t shoot him,” she said.
“Zoë …”
“I can’t stay for the exe—for what’s going to happen. I just can’t. The whole city’s going to be a mess. I’m going to be a mess.”
Flyday Page 17
