by Mike Chen
Kin’s mind zeroed in on one option, the only option in this case: change the subject as fast as possible. “I don’t know. I did that a long time ago. I barely remember it. Wasn’t really my thing. I took up cooking instead.”
“No, I mean you should write more.” She faced him, seriousness carved in that seemed decades older than her fourteen years. “I was excited when I found it. I thought you might have found a new way to, you know, express yourself. Because you should write more.”
“Cooking is much—”
“To help your PTSD.” Miranda’s eyes lingered, bringing an extra weight to her words before she looked down again. “They say that writing is therapeutic for healing trauma.”
Her words stopped him cold. This wasn’t about a cool fictional time-travel world. The fear from earlier, her concern over the headaches and fainting, this was Miranda’s way to turn anxiety into hope. He wished he could hold her the way he did when she was a newborn, when a swaddle wrap and father’s arms were enough to soothe her.
“Who says that?”
“Google.” Miranda continued to look away. “I searched for it.”
“You and Mom both, huh?” Kin reached over and squeezed his daughter’s shoulder, his voice low. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with those types of things.”
“I’m fourteen. I know how the world works. I can tell, your symptoms are getting worse.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I worry about you.” Miranda’s hand landed on top of his. “The blackouts, the memory stuff. It’s, like, all gotten worse in the past few months. Bad things happen when you don’t treat PTSD. I mean, what would we do if something happened to you? Have you tasted Mom’s cooking?”
“Mom worries about the cooking part, too.” They both laughed, though Kin blinked back a sudden rush of tears. He was pretty sure Miranda did, too.
“I mean, what bad stuff could have caused all this?”
“I know I don’t talk about my past much.” His admission came with a heavy sigh.
“You never do. I always thought it was ‘I could tell you but I’d have to kill you’ stuff. But I really think you need to get it out of your system. In real life or in fiction. Or talk to someone. Like, a therapist.” Her lips trembled, the next few words barely making it out. “Or, you know, me.”
The fake specifics were cemented into his mind, repeated so many times that he practically believed them. The false Social Security number and identity that he’d paid for so many years ago probably even registered as official. Even if the details came from fiction, they were fact now. That was all that mattered.
“Maybe sometime we can go get some dessert and...try. You and me.”
When was the last time she’d opened up like this? Had she ever?
Or maybe he’d never noticed before. His whole life since getting stranded in 1996 was spent protecting himself from the past. But here, in this moment with Miranda, he’d let his guard down in a foreign, almost unnatural way.
It was great.
“Listen.” Kin turned to his daughter, meeting her eye to eye. “I made a promise to Mom and I’m making it to you, too—the dizzy spells, the fainting, all that stuff, it will stop. I know it’s gotten worse. Trust me when I say that I also know—” he hesitated, picturing the beacon buried safely away in the garbage can “—where a lot of this comes from.”
He left out the part about not knowing why some memories remained headache-free while others crippled him, why some headaches were worse than others, why some involved nausea and others just beat his skull into submission. It didn’t matter. In the end, it all held him back from what really counted.
“Traveling through time to capture bad guys?” Miranda said with a laugh.
“Yeah,” Kin scoffed, “that’s it. I used work for the Temporal Corruption Bureau.” Though the words came out brightly, the very statement caused a spark up and down his spine, punctuated with the smallest twinge of a headache.
Kin vowed to himself that this was the last time he’d ever waste a breath or thought on the TCB again.
“It’s behind me. For good.” He had more important things to focus on. “Now, can you promise me something?”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t tell anyone about the journal. Especially Mom. It’s embarrassing enough as it is. She didn’t even know I took the class.”
Kin held his hand out, and Miranda slapped him five like they used to when he was teaching her basics of soccer years ago. “Deal.” She stood up, plate in hand, though she stopped halfway to the sink. Her mouth fell open and she angled her neck, looking out the window. “Dad?” The softness left her voice, replaced by urgency. “Someone’s in the backyard.”
Kin stood up and peered through the glass. Though dusk stole some visibility, Miranda was right: the silhouette of a man moved across the yard. Long-dormant instincts to target and pursue flickered to life, fusing with a relentless urge to protect his family. The man stayed close to the fence, and it took Kin only a second to realize that it was the mystery deliveryman from earlier.
CHAPTER 3
Adrenaline coursed through Kin, reactivating a spectrum of reflexes. While his mind didn’t remember the specifics of 2142 or the TCB, his body retained muscle memory despite cumulative impact of age and injuries.
Knees bent. Head down. Arms tucked. Left foot. Right foot.
He crouch-walked around the front yard, gently placing one foot after another to minimize sound, his knees burning against the pressure.
Before he went outside, he’d told Miranda to not worry, go work on her project. He’d said it confidently too; given all the PTSD talk, the last thing he needed was for her or Heather to think he’d become paranoid to boot. With each step, the creeping caution melted away into an excitement, like popcorn exploding inside a bag.
He’d slipped out the front door to avoid detection, then locked it behind him. As he’d moved to the side yard and up to the gate, everything felt natural, his eyes darting corner to corner, searching for anything of note. The gate pushed open, Kin guiding it back against the post softly to avoid its usual creaky hinges. He took one step in, then another, then another until he hit the corner and peeked.
It was the man from before. The deliveryman, the one with the British accent and no package or truck. He stood next to the garbage can while looking at his tablet.
Intimidate. Approach. Observe. Wait. Surprise. Each had its merits, and in a few seconds, Kin whittled down the pros and cons. The options continued playing out, though a new one arrived: get inside, call the police, and lock the doors.
But the element of surprise won out. If he was going to get the jump on this guy, now was the time. The man began muttering to himself, and as he did, Kin took his first step out, angle of approach visualized in his mind. The man shook his head, then spoke inaudibly again. Suddenly, an orange glow materialized, a semitranslucent brightness floating in front of him.
Blood drained from Kin’s face, his stomach a nest of butterflies trying to escape. His hand reached for the house to steady himself, the oncoming disorientation causing him to try twice before he succeeded.
Was that...?
Even in the purple hues of dusk, Kin saw the distinct outline of a holographic interface, and once the image registered in his mind, a stinging pain drilled into his temple, causing him to fall to his knees.
The man turned around and they locked eyes.
The urge to pass out rose and fell, crashing like waves against the beach. Kin’s temples pounded, and he steadied himself with his palm planted flat into concrete.
The man approached, the holo dissolving away. He held his hand out as he took cautious steps forward. Kin urged his body to fight, to move and protect his family against this intruder, yet nothing worked. The very sight of the holo petrified him, the pain in his head throttling his ability to
even think.
The man stopped, his scuffed work boots mere inches from Kin. He knelt and looked Kin square in the eye. “Agent Stewart?”
Agent? The last time someone called him that was, well, he couldn’t remember. He absolutely couldn’t remember. Those details evaporated from his mind years ago.
Kin tried to respond. No words managed to make it out.
“My god, Kin. What happened to you?”
The face. The voice. Even the man’s posture as he knelt. It all seemed so familiar, an old photo album with the details blurred out. The more Kin looked, the worse the headache got, pressure mercilessly jackhammering his temples. “TCB?” he managed to eke out before all his limbs went numb.
“Looks like we’re a little late,” the man said. Kin’s entire body froze, from his curled toes to his unblinking eyes. The man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a chrome tube. The tube’s tip retracted with a hiss, revealing a short needle. “There’s something I need to do.”
* * *
“Dad?”
Miranda’s question lingered as Kin’s faculties returned. Unlike earlier, he didn’t have to peel himself off the floor. Instead, he stood in the backyard, though he wasn’t sure for how long.
The final rays of sunlight disappeared beyond the skyline of their suburban San Francisco neighborhood, leaving wisps of purple and pink among the gradually darkening orange. It’d been brighter just moments ago. Hadn’t it?
He came out here. He saw the deliveryman. Something about him petrified all of Kin’s senses. A headache, too. And a syringe.
And then a whirlwind of images, like he’d pounded the strongest coffee of all time, then chased it with an energy drink.
But where was the man now? He’d called him “Agent Stewart,” hadn’t he? He’d said something when he pulled out the syringe, or at least Kin thought so.
“Dad? Are you having another...problem?”
Kin blinked and turned to find Miranda in a tentative posture. Behind her, Bamford, their brindle greyhound stood, her ears alert like butterfly wings.
Bamford wasn’t barking at any invading strangers. Miranda wasn’t scared or hurt.
The man was TCB. He had to be. The holo interface, the chrome syringe. For what purpose?
Kin weighed his options and decided on calm. No need to worry Miranda. If they came to hurt him or his family, they would have already done it. He scanned the backyard again; no trace of the mystery man or anything out of the ordinary.
“No. No, not at all. I’m fine. I promise. Look,” he said, pointing at the melting colors in the sky. “Just enjoying the view.” Miranda lined up next to him, her lanky body leaning into his.
“It’s pretty.”
“Sometimes we take these things for granted.”
“Yeah,” she said quietly before turning to him. “Though, my science teacher says that nice sunsets are because of pollution. Chemicals in the air.”
“Well,” Kin said as Bamford came up, her long nose demanding scratches with a nudge, “it still looks nice.”
“Everything cool with the delivery guy?”
“Yeah. The delivery guy.” Kin pulled specifics from his memory. The details were alive, vibrant; he could see the man’s face now, from his sandy hair and fair complexion to the crook of his Roman nose. He could even hear the inflection of his accent. “He was told to put a package in the Sladens’ backyard and couldn’t get their gate open, so he tried it from our yard. That’s all.”
The memories didn’t give him a headache.
That should have been a good thing. Instead, more questions rattled through his mind, and he told himself to not look confused in front of Miranda—especially since Heather just made her way out. “Am I missing something here?” she asked, a playful lilt back in her voice.
“A sunset.”
“California sunsets.” Heather came up behind Miranda, planting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “It’s because of pollution, you know.”
Miranda shot a grin Kin’s way.
“I’m done with work for tonight,” Heather said. “Promise. So, time travelers?”
“Be right there. How about starting some popcorn?”
“Microwaves. My specialty,” Heather said with a grin. Miranda grunted an affirmative, then turned around, her flip-flops making the noise they were named after. Heather and Bammy followed her in, the dog’s nails clacking against the pavement.
Kin went the opposite direction, farther down the backyard to the garbage can where the man had been lurking about earlier. He lifted the lid and looked down.
The beacon was gone.
Kin reached in, pulling out plastic bag by plastic bag until the large bin was empty. A quick survey of the backyard showed no other signs of tampering. No patio chairs were moved, no plants were knocked over, even the ceramic turtle in the corner still sat in its place, a six-month ring of algae forming on the pavement around it. Nothing amiss but the vanished beacon.
Kin’s back pocket buzzed, and he pulled out his phone to read the text that appeared. Except this message wasn’t the office complaining about another hack to the Gold Free Games server.
It came from an unknown number.
9:30 AM at the Noble Mott Cafe. We need to talk.
He hadn’t imagined things. This was real.
TCB had arrived from 2142.
CHAPTER 4
“You made it.” The man reached over for a handshake.
Kin almost didn’t. The night before had been a blur of staring at the ceiling waiting for some further sign of the TCB, followed by strange, too-real dreams of a mysterious woman silhouetted against the backdrop of a futuristic cityscape, something straight out of Heather’s movie collection. After that, he’d spent all morning debating whether to show up for this clandestine meeting, while dodging questions from Heather about what was bothering him. Rather than go to work, he’d driven to a park two blocks away from Noble Mott Café and sat.
Ignore the text. Go to the meeting. Confront the man. Sneak up on him and knock him out. Lure him out for interrogation. Play along and act happy to see him.
Run. Pack up Heather, Miranda, and Bamford and run like hell.
The ultimate choice seemed logical: meet the man, find out what he wanted, then reassess. Then execute. And keep his emotions at bay. This required clarity.
Kin approached the café and then the table, keeping his arms at his side while he studied the man. Gone was the delivery uniform, the disguise of choice in residential areas, replaced by gray pants and a black jacket—standard-issue casual clothing for mission events in public places, a look that blended in easily during nearly any modern era.
He knew that. Where did he pick up that detail? And why wasn’t his head pounding him into submission at remembering it?
“Okay, then,” the man said, pulling his hand back. “Guess we’re gonna have to work back up to that. Sorry about disappearing on you last night. I heard someone coming so I got out of there. Sit down?” Processing the coffee shop interior, Kin noted four other people, three customers scattered along chairs and couches and one person behind the counter. All of them remained out of earshot, which probably was a good thing, what with the whole timeline corruption thing. If they overheard, would this man get a demerit on his record? “Agent visualization method, huh?”
Was it that obvious? Kin thought he still had all his agent skills, but time must have worn away his ability to be subtle. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Right, the whole ‘silently darting eyes’ is actually you contemplating life, huh?” He laughed. “You field agents think you’re so clever. ‘Assess and execute,’” he said, his fingers forming quotes in the air. “You know what I love about era twenty-one-A?” He held up his paper coffee cup, a little dribble forming a dark brown trail down the side. “The coffee.
So much better here. I only wish they wouldn’t look at me strange when I asked for honey in it.”
Coffee with honey. Heather hated the aroma of Kin pouring honey into his coffee. She wouldn’t like cafés in the future. “So, you are TCB.”
“And we’re eighteen years late.” The man’s downturned mouth and low-pulled shoulders gave off an air of regret. Kin didn’t need to be an active secret agent to figure that out. “Look at me. Really concentrate.” The man pointed to his face. “You know this. It’s just gotta wake up.”
The details were the same as last night in the yard. And something new....
Markus. His name was Markus. Markus...something. A retriever agent.
Kin winced, almost out of reflex. He expected his temples to be pounding. Instead, no sudden tension took over, no stinging on the side of his head. He sat back in his chair, the ease of the memory causing a creeping anxiety. “Your name is Markus. People like you arrive when the mission ends. You verify the result and bring the time-jump accelerator to take us home.”
“Good. No headache?”
“No.”
“Anything to note since last night? More headaches, fewer headaches, dizzy spells?”
“I had a dream last night. It was vivid. Real. But distant.” Flashes came back to him, details of the dream suddenly snapping into his mind’s eye. A woman he didn’t recognize, her random words played back—was that an English accent? Her face came into focus, round cheeks and expressive eyes and dark brown hair. Applause surrounded them, but from who? The way she looked at him with such certainty in her eyes—but why?
And a feeling. Of what specifically, he couldn’t tell, but something tangible was there.
“REM sensitivity due to hyperactivity in the cerebral cortex. Side effect of this,” Markus said, reaching into his bag on the floor. “Can you tell me what this is?”
Markus held up a thin chrome tube between his thumb and forefinger. The same thing he pulled out last night.
