by Mike Chen
“I can’t get the ball.” He pointed to the mob roving around the yard, the ball a pendulum that swung back and forth, carrying a gaggle of children with it.
“Well, let’s see.” When Miranda was this age, Kin tried to instill ideas into her team about playing the sport, not just follow the ball around. His success rate at teaching that remained quite low—zero, according to feedback from irritated fellow parents—since he’d stubbornly tried to pass on visualization techniques about assessing passing options and looking for defensive holes rather than offer gentle encouragement. He met Benjamin’s wide stare, and ignored any hints of young Miranda flashing through his memory. “Which side are you shooting on?” Benjamin pointed to the far left side and the glowing kid-sized holographic net. “Okay, what do you think is going on here? What do you see everyone doing?”
Benjamin squinted, exaggerated lines surfacing all around his face from his deep concentration. “They’re trying to get the ball.”
“Right. That’s true. Look,” he said, directing the boy’s attention, “they’re all running after it. Now, where are you going to be if you’re always chasing the ball?”
“Mmm.” Gears seemed to twirl and turn in his seven-year-old mind. “Behind it?”
“Yup. And you can’t get the ball if you’re behind it. So what does that mean?”
“Go—in front of it?”
“No, not necessarily. Left or right of it. Or in front of it. As long as it’s away from the ball—because then it’ll eventually come to you, and no one will be expecting it. Go where it’s heading instead of where it’s been. It’s the first lesson you should learn about soccer. Try it.”
Benjamin trotted across the small patio and then turned back to Kin before sending an approving nod. “Where it’s heading,” he called out, pointing to a patch of open grass. Benjamin moved at half speed to the empty area when the ball took a sudden bounce and landed a few feet in front of him. His legs pumped, far faster than Kin had ever seen him go before. He dribbled the ball forward, probably emulating what his father had taught him, despite looking like he might fly out of control at any second.
But he didn’t. Instead, Benjamin took three strong strides forward and sent the ball through the holographic net and into the bark and succulents behind it. A smattering of cheers and whoops came up, and Benjamin ran back to the patio, a wide beam covering his whole face. “I did it, Uncle Kin!” Kin sent a high five and fist bump his way, though Benjamin finished it off with a hug. “Aunt Penny!”
“Penny,” her dad called. He stood up, gait swooning from potentially too much alcohol. “Did you see your mum’s cake?”
“Not yet, Dad.”
“Maybe you should ask her what dessert will sell in restaurants.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” she yelled back. “Happy birthday, Benjamin.” The child responded by grabbing both of their hands, pulling them over to the backyard soccer field. The ball found its way to Kin, but rather than pass it back, he launched into every trick he could think of, from dribbling in midair to playing keep-away with the bunch. After a few minutes surrounded by laughter and clamor, Kin sensed eyes burning into the back of his head, and he turned to catch Penny staring his way. She blinked as they exchanged looks, a mixture of relief—probably from not having to deal with her parents—and disbelief—probably at Kin’s outburst of child-rearing. Before they could speak, Markus stepped through the back door.
No one else knew that Kin recognized Markus’s field attire, gray pants and a black belt used for holding equipment of various shapes and sizes. However, the standard-issue coat was missing, probably tossed into the back of his car, a simple white undershirt in its place. The outfit gave the impression that he’d come from a job spent fixing some heavy equipment. For Kin it drew a complete picture of a return jump that arrived a little later than anticipated.
A jump that may have involved eliminating Miranda.
The crowd of children dissipated with Enoch’s announcement of cake and ice cream. Penny and the other adults helped guide the herd. Markus, whose messages Kin hadn’t returned over the past few days, shot him a knowing look and mouthed the words, “You okay?”
Penny’s arm cinched around Kin’s waist, and she turned to look at the mob forming near Enoch. Kin stifled the volcanic rage inside of him, one that urged to reveal that this man, Markus, his friend was involved in the murder of his daughter.
He reminded himself of what had become his mantra recently: that as terrible as it was, there was a certain logic to it all. He had to repeat it, even though he didn’t necessarily believe it.
There was no other way.
The line ran through his head one more time, and Kin gave a quick nod to Markus, one that seemed to spark relief in his response. “Markus,” she said to her brother, “you owe him one. He kept the kids busy. And away from Mum and Dad.” He replied with a laugh and a grin, and both TCB agents performed with the textbook casual demeanor used when dealing with civilians. “Just one thing,” she said as they moved to join the group. “Where did you learn to handle children like that?”
Kin pretended not to notice the look Markus shot him. “Like what?”
“You were a one-man show out there. Does radiation treatment teach you how to be a crown dad or something?” Her round cheeks rose in a smile, and she bumped him, hip to hip. “You made it look easy. Even, I don’t know, fun. Like it’s not as scary as I thought.”
Kin’s mouth slipped half-open as he turned to Penny. They’d talked about children before, of course, mostly from the vague definition of eventually. Whenever the topic came up, Penny usually followed it quickly with a “but” statement: “but we have plenty of time” or “but a nephew is good enough for me now” or “but I wouldn’t even know what to do,” along with the occasional comment expressing gratitude for metabolizers, unlike her naturalist cousin, who had decided to have kids by thirty-five thanks to a nonmetabolizer life span. “It’s not scary. It really isn’t.”
Penny’s lips angled upward ever so slightly and then pushed out into a wider and broader grin when they looked at each other. “You sound so confident. Like you’ve already pulled it off.”
“Penny, dear,” her mother called from inside the house. “Help me with the cake.”
“Daughterly duties,” she said, giving him a peck.
“You could say you’re busy.”
“Path of least resistance.” She walked to the patio door, and Kin kept a few-steps-behind pace in case she wanted a last-second bailout. Penny strode in, a confidence pasted onto her voice, even when Edith began lecturing her on all the ways her recent recipes lacked imagination. By the time Kin turned around to rejoin Enoch and the children, Edith had moved on from cooking criticisms to why volunteering with cat rescues was a waste of time. “They’re survivors. They take care of themselves. You’re messing with the natural order of things.”
When Penny stepped back into the backyard, her hands filled by a platter displaying an immaculately decorated cake with precision piping and a detailed stadium across its miniature soccer field, all she could manage was a whisper of “mistake” to Kin. Enoch and Markus led the group in singing “Happy Birthday.” Benjamin sang, too, clapping in an out-of-time rhythm while the candle glow reflected off his pupils. The song came around to its final line, everyone singing at half speed to draw out the final “happy birthday to you” before cheering. Benjamin wiggled his head around while blowing out all seven candles. The last one flickered, fighting back against the blowing air. Markus leaned over, his head right above Benjamin’s, and he gave one quick puff to help his son finish.
Benjamin’s movements were nearly an exact mirror of Miranda’s sixth birthday. He’d watched that video on his phone yesterday morning when Penny left for work. Two children, separated by more than a century. Both shaking with laughter. Both bouncing with anticipation. Both looking to their parents. So
me things must never change.
Enoch lifted Benjamin up and planted a large kiss on his son’s forehead while Markus grabbed a knife for the cake.
“Look at that,” Penny said, leaning into Kin. “The way they look at Benjamin. Like they’d find a way to cheat death for him if they could. I mean, can you imagine feeling something that intense? That pure? I don’t think I could pull that off. I mean, when we have kids, I’ll probably break them. I can’t wait for Mum to comment on that one.” She sighed, her weight pushing farther into him.
Penny’s sentiment may have been a hint at a new path in their life. Or she may have been simply expressing admiration for her brother. Regardless, it represented the first time that the question of children was presented as a when, not if.
She didn’t look up at Kin, though, which was probably a good thing. Because while the afternoon may have shifted Penny a fraction on how she felt about children, all it did for Kin was widen the gap between his present and the mystery of Miranda’s life.
“Uncle Kin! Uncle Kin!” Benjamin ran over and grabbed his hand, pulling him over to Markus and Enoch. “Tell Daddy and Pappa what you showed me.”
“I saw it, Benjamin. But Pappa finally got here, so maybe you can tell him.”
Benjamin fired off words, his vowels and consonants running together into one semi-coherent explanation about basic soccer strategy. While he rattled things off, Penny pulled Enoch for a quick aside, and Kin took the brief opening to fire at Markus. “Did you just do it?”
“No,” Markus said, his voice soft enough not to derail Benjamin’s train of thought. “Tomorrow night. I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“Great, right, Pappa?” Benjamin finished, looking straight up. Markus scooped the boy up, planting a kiss at the center of the unending curls on his head.
“Uncle Kin knows what he’s doing, huh?”
“Yeah, Pappa. Go where the ball is heading.”
“You know why that works so well?”
Benjamin nodded. “’Cause everyone else is chasing it. But you know where it’s going. So you can take it!” The last sentence came with an emphatic nod.
The strategy represented the most fundamental way to transition kids from playing the game to becoming players. Except reinterpreted in its most simplistic form by a young child, the philosophy opened up a whole new realm of possibilities.
Including one idea that might save Miranda.
Kin drew in a slow, steadying breath as he surveyed the scene. Boys and girls playing. Adults talking and laughing. Penny sharing a drink with Enoch and avoiding her parents while Markus carried Benjamin around.
This was life. This was family. This was the thing he was trying to preserve, the thing he wanted to protect from the TCB’s prying claws.
And he may have finally discovered a way to pull it off. Excitement bubbled through his veins, an effervescence tempered only by Penny’s smiling face. She met his eyes and waved him over.
A different type of guilt flooded over him, along with the stinging realization that saving Miranda came at its own cost.
In order to do it, he’d have to break Penny’s heart.
Once again his past and his future would fight for control of his present.
He walked over to her and drew her in with his arm. She looked up at him, and he offered a quick but gentle kiss.
“Well, aren’t we Mr. Affectionate today?” she asked with a laugh.
“Thought you could use a boost.” She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, which proved to be fortunate. If she’d been looking up at him, she might have caught the split-second break in his defenses. “That’s all.”
CHAPTER 22
Kin stared into the camera’s unblinking iris across from him. Yet again he’d reset the recording. Maybe it was because he worked off a script that was equal parts apology, explanation, and love letter. He stopped and started over and over whenever his tone sounded more like a lecturer than a partner saying farewell. Mere hours passed after Benjamin’s birthday party, which didn’t leave much space to come up with a perfect speech.
But this was when he had to do it. It was his only chance to get to Miranda before Markus and the TCB did.
A quick tap on the floating interface triggered recording again. Kin straightened up and looked ahead. “Hello, Penny,” he said, his voice even and steady. “By the time you see this, I’ll be gone. I’m very sorry to have done this to you. I hope you can forgive me someday. The truth is that I haven’t been totally honest with you about—”
His notes flickered and stopped scrolling, causing him to stutter. He turned the recording off again; it didn’t matter because he already knew that it came across as a half-dead reading rather than a heartfelt message, something as cold as what the TCB left for Heather and Miranda. The clock showed that it was nearly two in the morning, which meant only an hour remained before he had to leave; there simply wasn’t enough time to keep messing around with this.
Not enough time—a sharp, quiet laugh escaped Kin, and he shook his head. What a concept.
The small backpack in the corner remained empty. He’d surveyed the apartment for possible gear he might need, though really there wasn’t much. Everything would be at his destination. All he had to do was arrive and hope for a little something extra from his lucky penny.
Or, as he told both Miranda and Benjamin, go where the ball was heading.
He tried recording again and stopped shortly after; this time, it wasn’t the holo notes that stopped him. The words simply didn’t want to come out.
Head in hands, he walked over to the kitchen. After years of controlling the kitchen with Heather, the impulse to reorganize Penny’s into a more cohesive and logical system, one that was arranged by function, size, and ease of use, that still arrived with a single glance—even now, on the eve of departure. Agent organizing: never a question of where equipment was under duress. He pushed that aside, going straight to the counter and pulling open a drawer. Underneath the morphing spatula and laser peeler sat something rarely used by the world anymore, something they’d only kept for emergencies: an old notepad and a pen. Technology allowed him to transmit emails across time. Yet, in the present, he had to rely on things that had been around for nearly twenty-five hundred years. The irony planted a silent grin on his face.
Penny, I’m sure you’re wondering why this note is here. Since I met you, I haven’t been totally honest about who I am. And since I’ve been back from “the accident,” I haven’t been totally honest about what happened.
Here’s the truth: Markus and I are time travelers.
Kin went on to reveal everything to Penny—that time travel was real, that he’d used it before. He explained the TCB, his role there, and finally divulged his most recent mission and how he’d become stranded in another time. He wrote about Heather and then Miranda, knowing the truth would hurt, but that he couldn’t bring himself to lie to anyone else.
Miranda is why I’m going back.
Not because I just want to be with her, though of course I do. I’m going back to save her life. It’s my fault she’s in this predicament, and it’s my responsibility to make sure she’s safe.
Please understand, I’m not choosing one life over another or Miranda over you. But because of everything that’s happened, because of bad decisions I’ve made, the TCB intends to kill her, and I can’t let that happen.
I’m going to try to jump back to save her.
Kin paused and rubbed his eyes. If the truth about his past had been difficult to admit to Penny, the reality of his future was only going to be worse. He picked up the pen and continued his letter, explaining to her the dangers involved in what lay ahead. Not only the risk he took in getting caught, but the potentially fatal gamble of the journey across time.
It doesn’t matter, though. I owe this to her. I created this
problem, and now I have to fix it. I’m her father, and I would give my life a hundred times if it meant she could keep hers. For the past few days, I kept thinking there wasn’t a way to save her. Tonight I found one. It may not work, but I have to try. I can’t give up.
Since I’ve been back, you’ve been the one thing that helped me return to this world. You stood by my side, you were patient. You were the person I needed and the Penny that I loved. I can never repay you for that. I’m so sorry that you’re the bystander in all of this. I wish I could take you with me to meet Miranda. I wish I could say that I’m definitely coming back and we’ll have the wedding. But I can’t. I simply don’t know. All I can say is that I love you, and I want you to be happy. Have a wonderful, long, and beautiful life.
Kin’s hands and arms remembered the way they felt that fateful night wrapped around Markus’s neck, ready to do the vilest thing possible in desperation. The very mention of Penny’s name triggered a solution, a purpose, one that brought him safely back to 2142 and into a world where things might have worked if he didn’t ruin it.
And you should open that restaurant. Don’t listen to Markus. Especially don’t listen to your mother. Of course you’ll succeed. You always do. I should have said that a long time ago. We all should have. Whatever happens, you were never “just Penny” to me. Even when I couldn’t remember you, I carried you with me.
He reached into his pocket, the smooth edges of the lucky penny pressing into his fingertips.
You have been and always will be extraordinary, he wrote. You were the reason why I came back home.
P.S. Don’t tell Markus what I’ve done. Please.
Kin signed his name. The point of the pen sat on the sheet where he dotted the i, ink pooling into a larger blotch. He wanted to say so much more about his regrets and guilt and how Penny helped him finally feel secure in this new place. Time ticked away, though, and writing even more would only increase her burden. Instead, he folded the two sheets in half and wrote her name on the outside.
