by Mike Chen
The beacon got shoved into the bag, followed by a journal showing the wear of everyday writing and reviewing.
The journal, the one that Miranda would find some sixteen years later. Kin had picked it up, flipping the paper pages, his handwritten details of the future and the TCB scrawled feverishly up and down, left and right, front page and back, paragraphs and paragraphs with crude inked sketches and numbers bordering and running alongside the text. He stopped at the last written page, and even now, his metabolizer-enhanced brain visualized the words in his memory so specifically:
History of time travel: the time-jump accelerator was created in 2097 as a top secret collaboration between the US, Australia, and Japan. The first object sent through time was a pen, sent a week earlier to a predetermined location with a sequestered scientist to prevent any grandfather paradoxes. This experiment was repeated with larger objects and eventually mammals. The first human to travel through time was Albert Beckett, the scientist who cracked the calculations necessary to create a dampening field that enabled particle acceleration at lower energy levels. In November 2098, the United Nations formed the Temporal Corruption Bureau as an independent overseer of time-travel technology and temporal security, with its existence only on a need-to-know basis within the intelligence community.
As he stared at the duffel bag, waiting for Heather to arrive, his gut filled with a sickening discomfort. Page after page he flipped, looking at notes and details written mere days before, yet nothing registered as familiar. Over the course of a year, those memories fragmented and scattered, seemingly stored now in the impenetrable puzzle box of his own mind.
And of all the things he’d written down in recent weeks, not a single line about his personal history. His life had been so exactly erased that he didn’t even realize it.
He’d started the journal too late.
Kin sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the pages, a headache going from light gallop to full rumble against his temples. Eyes forced open, he refused to give in to the headache. On the tip of his tongue, the edge of his mind, something started to poke through. Not a name or a face or anything concrete, though his mind raced with one repeated thought.
The lucky penny. The penny, just a penny, over and over and over.
But what did it mean?
Then Heather knocked. Early. Or maybe he’d lost track of time.
He looked up, his mind and body returning to equilibrium. In his hands sat his past, or at least pieces of it, clues and hints and facts without context, all painting an out-of-focus picture of who he used to be, something tangible over the horizon if he fought for it hard enough. He could hold on to all that. Or he could let Heather in, put history into the archives for another time.
Another knock at the door. The journal, the bag, the equipment. Headaches. Mystery. Frustration.
Or the woman at the door.
Kin looked back and forth, weighing the two for seconds that felt like hours before Heather broke the silence. “Kin,” the voice came through, “I’m a little early. Sorry about that. Should I come back in a few?”
Kin stuffed the journal into the bag and put it in the corner. It could wait.
“So I finally get to see your secret lair,” Heather had said when he opened the door. He motioned her in, and she stepped inside, taking in the sparse living of his home. She set her purse down, the top half of a magazine sticking out, its cover featuring the re-release of a 1970s sci-fi movie—the same one that got his coworkers all worked up. He took her coat and their evening began.
One thing led to another and to another that night, and they’d wound up missing their dinner reservations, wrapped around each other in his uncomfortable twin bed. The next morning, he awoke to the sound of cabinets opening and closing.
“Sorry,” Heather said, clothed only in underwear and a T-shirt, “didn’t meant to slam it so loud.”
Kin had snapped awake, becoming fully alert to the fact that Heather might have accidentally stumbled upon some trace of the TCB, maybe even opened the bag. He sat up, adrenaline pumping in a different way than the last night. Heather held up a package of convenience store cupcakes. “Breakfast? Found this in a cabinet.”
“You’re okay with cupcakes for breakfast?”
“Dessert is the best way to start the day. Unless you’re making magic out of the two apples in your fridge.”
“I’m still learning to cook.”
“Like I said—” she sauntered back over to the bed, manufactured baked goods in hand “—breakfast.” While she’d struggled to open the plastic wrap, he glanced back to the duffel in the corner. It remained closed, untouched, still resting in the odd dented manner from the night before. When she’d looked around his place, Heather had seemed more interested in the small stack of VHS tapes sitting on the counter, at least until she realized they were recordings of Premier League soccer matches loaned out by the school’s UEFA Fan Club. And this morning, her attention was on cupcakes.
“God, I’m terrible at opening these things. Do me a favor?” He pulled his eyes from the duffel to see Heather holding the cupcake package in his direction.
A single thought struck him with the impact of a gunshot to the gut. Did a missing past even matter anymore compared to human touch in the here and now?
Years later, the same duffel bag sat on the bed he shared with the same woman, now his wife, packed tightly because that missing past suddenly mattered on a level of life and death.
From downstairs, the sound of Bamford’s collar began to jingle, soon followed by the opening and closing of the front door. “Kin?” Heather called out.
Sweaty palms. Trembling hands. How un-agent-like he felt when he needed it most. “Upstairs,” he said before reminding himself to stay focused.
“What’s the matter? Your text said it was an emergency.” Rapid footsteps echoed up the stairs. “Is Miranda okay? I’m supposed to pick her up in a little while.”
Kin turned and faced his wife, her wide eyes the opposite of his serious squint. “We need to go.” A tremor made it into his words, and he hoped she didn’t pick up on it.
Heather stayed frozen. She didn’t even appear to breathe. “Go...where?”
“Somewhere. Anywhere. Help me pack. But pack light.”
Heather put her hands up and began a slow walk toward him. “Let’s think this through. You are literally telling us to—” she pointed at the duffel bag on the bed “—pack up and go? What about Miranda? And Bammy?”
In an instant, all of Kin’s fears and feelings got shoved aside, compartmentalized. Lists visualized, options and potential travel scenarios flooding his mind, all keeping the emotions at bay. Adrenaline? Training? Survival? Perhaps a mix of all three. “We’ll take them with us, of course. We’ll pick up Miranda from school and—”
The floor squeaked with each of Heather’s approaching steps. She got close, face-to-face, and her hands reached over and gently held his cheeks. “Hey. It’s me. We’re home now. You’re having another PTSD flare-up. It’s okay. Let’s sit down, we’ll talk through this—”
He turned, his breath pushing out in a huff. They didn’t have time to debate this. TCB agents could be anywhere: down the street, at Miranda’s school. Maybe even hiding in their garage. Markus had been in their backyard last night.
Could he say that without sounding completely out of his mind? “I can explain. Not now, later. Everything—everything—will make sense. Everything you’ve ever wondered about me. After we make sure that we’re far enough away—”
“Kin, it’s getting worse.”
“No, it’s not. Heather, listen.” From his peripheral vision, he sensed that Heather remained glued to her spot while he stared at the bed. “I know this sounds crazy. You have to trust me. We’re in danger. We need to leave. Pack light. Get our family together. They could be right behind us. They could be watching now. I mean,
they tracked me down and—”
The noise caused Kin to stop, though it wasn’t a crash from an invading agent or a surprise visit from Markus. Instead, the gradual escalation of Heather’s emotions, from a stifled sniffle to a full-blown cry.
She hardly ever cried. His tears flowed more often than hers did. She even told him he had a horrible crying face when he got emotional over Arsenal winning the FA Cup.
He was losing her. Fear, desperation, panic, all of those crept in and he resisted. Not now. For now he had to focus, get his family to safety. Then he could breathe.
Kin turned to her, and she straightened, tears streaming down her face. “Listen to yourself,” she said, her finger pointing with every syllable. “Just listen to what you’re saying. Kin, you need help. Please get help. You’re scaring me—you scared Miranda, you’re scaring her with your—”
The words bounced off him, sound going in his ears though their meaning got lost shortly after. His goal, his only goal, was to convince her to run with him. “We talked, she gets it, I told her not to be worried—”
“You get dizzy spells. You pass out in the garage. You space out.” Heather’s voice had completed the transformation from cautious sympathy to desperation, and it got louder with each word. “You’ve been doing this since I met you, but it hasn’t happened for years. Why now? Why the past six months? Why don’t you go to the VA office and get help? You’re a veteran, damn it, you took a bullet in your gut for them,” she said, pointing to the spot where Kin cut out the beacon, “and now they have to help. They have to help you. They owe it to you. Just, please, listen to yourself.”
“Heather,” Kin said, eyes closed. The details of missions had started to come back. Initial scouting from afar. Identifying movement patterns, target sleep cycles, behavioral habits. Using intel from Mission Control to track them down in isolation before apprehending and/or executing. Meticulous. Relentless. Precise. That might all be happening now, only this time with his wife, his daughter as targets. Fear of losing Heather’s trust poked at him, yet fear of the TCB finding them eclipsed that, taking the only spotlight that mattered. “I understand everything you’re saying. I am present. You don’t know what we’re up against. I do. We need to go now. We have to get ahead of them.”
“Who are they?” Heather roared, her voice louder than he’d ever heard. “Listen to yourself. They. Who are they? If this is so important, why can’t you tell me?”
“I can’t. Not right now. When I know we’re safe, I can...” Kin hesitated for two, maybe three seconds, long enough for doubts to sneak in. His focus lost grip, its tenuous hold giving way to a barrage of questions. He’d had only one metabolizer injection. How long would it last? How long would his brain hold together, and how soon before the details started to wither away again? “I will write down everything I know and give it to you.” His words rippled on their way out. “Because I may forget it.”
“You’re not making any sense.” Heather buried her face in her hands. “Oh god, you’re not making any sense. It’s so much worse than before.” Heather’s posture began to droop in a way Kin had never seen before, as if something turned her bones to mush, and if they waited long enough, she might even collapse on the floor.
“We can talk about this later, we need—”
“Stop. Just stop.” Heather grabbed his shoulder, her hand heavy though her fingers barely gripped him. “We can’t live like this. Do you hear me? You. Need. Help.”
This wasn’t working. Kin tried to recall his options, his plan for convincing her, but nothing arrived. No ideas, no visualizations, nothing except a growing dull pain at the back of his skull. He started to massage his temples, though it wasn’t from the familiar headaches. “Let’s back up. Start over—”
“No. No starting over. You need to get help before you hurt yourself or you hurt us.”
“I would never hurt you. Or Miranda. Come on, you can’t believe that.”
“Not on purpose. But what happens if you have a dizzy spell while you’re on the road? If you think you see something, whatever it is, and you miss a red light? If you black out while taking Miranda somewhere? Could you live with that? Could I live with that? You need to get help. We can’t continue this way.” She winced, though Kin didn’t know if that was from the situation or from her own headaches. Either way, her words began to sink in. He didn’t need any of his agent training to piece together where this was leading. “You’ve been avoiding this for months. Get help, Kin. Now.” Heather took in a slow breath. Her hands quivered slightly, and she crossed her arms, either to hide that fact or perhaps to just support herself. “Please. Don’t run away. Just do it.”
Every single fiber of his being urged him to fight for her. Except he’d gotten them into this. Everything that was happening now, everything that could happen when the TCB found them—he’d started it all when he decided to break Protocol Eleven Twenty-Three and live a life in the past. When he returned Heather’s smile in the computer lab all those years ago. And rather than throw himself in front of the time-traveling speeding bullet, he’d actually asked his wife to pack up her family and go, leaving everything behind to rush off to parts unknown, no promise of coming back or even a hint as to why they needed to go.
Of course Heather wouldn’t follow. She was too smart, too sensible. He’d let blind hope win out over logic.
“You’re right.” He was more aware than he’d been for years thanks to the metabolizer. Markus said to stay away to keep them safe. At this point, being around him could only be dangerous. It was so simple. It was time to run.
Not them. Just himself.
“I should go.”
“Thank god—”
“No, I mean, I should go.” He was the former agent, not them. He was the one Markus came for, not them. He could protect them by simply staying away, at least until Markus resolved things. “Not just counseling. A live-in rehab center. For a few days, few weeks. Whatever it takes.”
“What?” She wiped her eyes, her mascara now raccoon-like smudges. “You can’t leave. Kin, we need you. We’re a family. What will Miranda think?”
“She needs stability. I can’t provide that right now. Let’s think this through.” Kin’s throat was dry, the sound getting lost in the cracks in his voice. “The sooner I do this, the sooner things get back to normal for our family. I’ll even look this afternoon. Maybe—” the possibilities for cover stories exploded in his mind “—they’ll even admit me today.”
“It’s so sudden—”
“No, you’re right. Every day that passes is a gamble. I can’t risk it. We can’t. I need help. And I can’t hurt you or scare Miranda anymore. I won’t.” The epiphany left only one thing to say, but each word became an exercise in moving mountains. “I need to leave to protect you two.”
Heather stared at him, her brown eyes locking in while the rest of her face danced from emotion to emotion across minutes. He visualized her practical mind processing the ideas, the rational justifications working with her attorney’s logic until reason settled in. She finally nodded, despite the sudden heaviness that slowed the slightest of her moves.
“You’re right.”
“It’ll be over before you know it. I promise.”
“You probably have a plan already, huh?”
“Always.”
Her hands came up, palms rubbing her face until she looked at him again, the previous intensity fading into a resigned softness. “The needs of the many...” she said, words barely above a whisper.
“What’s that, babe?”
Her long fingers swept through her hair. “‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.’ Spock says it. In Star Trek II.”
Kin’s heart pounded, his chest a bubble about to burst, not because of anxiety but from seventeen-some years of shared life. Of course she would quote Star Trek to him in a moment like this. “I love you, Heat
her Stewart. Never, ever, ever change.”
“And I love you.” Heather’s small smile turned into a smaller laugh. “You and your stupid plans.” Kin nodded, the uncertainty on his face carrying a different weight from what he actually felt. “Ever since I met you—” she pulled him in close, arms squeezing him so hard that he couldn’t breathe “—I’ve felt like I sometimes come in second place to something. But we’re in this together. Even if we’re not physically together. This is for all of us. The needs of the many.”
This is for all of us. Heather ripped the words directly out of Kin’s mind. Except his thoughts were set against a different context, one that she couldn’t possibly comprehend. “The needs of the many,” he echoed quietly. Her body melted against his and he absorbed her through each of his senses, the arch of her back, the smell of her hair, the way her cheeks were the exact same height as his when they pressed together. He locked the details to specifics that he hoped didn’t evaporate. He kissed her, a quiet gesture of pure devotion, and she returned it, the same warmth but with a passion that propelled them into something more. Their arms went from tender to urgent, a sudden franticness that only two people facing separation could know.
Though Kin knew that separation meant something completely different—this chasm spanned space and time.
As their hands clutched each other desperately, as Heather pressed her lips up and down his neck, as he tried to permanently carve her very essence into his memory, he reached over and pushed the duffel bag off the bed. Though TCB and Markus didn’t give him a choice on leaving, for one final time—as he did sixteen years ago—he chose Heather over his past.
CHAPTER 6
At midnight, Kin allowed himself to indulge in music.
He’d trailed Heather’s car when she picked up Miranda. He called her shortly after, using a cover story that a PTSD rehab center in Marin had accepted him and he was leaving tonight, that he was already on the road to make their registration time despite her pleas to go as a family. He followed them home at a distance, parking in the dark under a tree, one block down. When the downstairs lights went out around eleven, he moved the car closer, the whole time his eyes trained on the Stewart house. His stomach grumbled from a lack of food, and his eyes fought a losing battle against fatigue. But nothing mattered more than keeping a quiet and steady watch for any potential TCB activity.
