Shake

by Chris Mandeville

  “I’m really sorry.” Sharrow looks like she means it. “But my mom won’t budge about time travel. And she has a point—changing the past only makes things worse.”

  “But I don’t want to change the past,” I insist. “I want to change it back.”

  “What do you mean?” Sharrow asks.

  “My parents weren’t supposed to die in 1906. When Bel and I went to that time, we changed history. Now I need to change it back to the way it was. The way it’s supposed to be.”

  “How do you know this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be?” Daum asks.

  “Because in this version Bel and I were never born,” I say. “Since we clearly were born before, this latest version of history is wrong.”

  “I can confirm,” Flyx says. “I saw it on the compare series. There were a bunch of people who were alive before, then their existence blinked out.”

  “That’s probably my crew,” I say. “Do you remember the names?”

  “There was you, Bel, and Kaitlin,” Flyx says. “Plus like ten more. I remember one of the names was odd. Mouse, maybe?”

  “Yes, Mouse!” My heart clenches thinking of her. “Do you remember any others? Haze or Vee? Gracie? Noah?”

  “Affirm,” Flyx says. “It was definitely your crew.”

  I swallow back tears. It’s not time to get emotional. It’s time to do something about it. “They were not supposed to die in 1906. None of them had even been born yet. I have to change it back to the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “I don’t know about changing things back…” Sharrow says. “Is that any different?”

  “It has to be, right?” I say. “If changing things makes it worse, changing things back has to be better.”

  “Has anyone ever tried that before?” Daum asks.

  “Not as far as I know,” Flyx says. “But Allie’s theory makes sense.”

  “So you’re saying you think it can work?” Daum says.

  “Not without you,” Flyx tells him. “We need your access to the wormhole. And we need you, too, Sharrow, since you’re Allie’s auditor.”

  “Even if I agree, you’ve got bigger problems,” Sharrow says to me.

  “Bel?”

  “That, too,” Sharrow says. “But I meant with the wormhole. My mom deactivated it.”

  “I think I can re-activate it,” Flyx says.

  “Why on the flat earth would you think that?” Daum says.

  “In the TIC—” Flyx turns to me. “That’s where I work. It’s basically a wormhole. I have access to the operational programming, and—”

  “You what?” Daum exclaims.

  “Never mind,” Flyx says. “My point is, if I can compare the TIC—that works—to the wormhole—that doesn’t—I might be able to reactivate the wormhole.”

  “You’re going to get us recycled like Spires and Novalie,” Daum says.

  “They were recycled?” My mouth goes dry.

  “Oh, my gods.” Sharrow sounds scared.

  “Are they…dead?” I ask.

  Flyx shakes his head. “Memories erased. But don’t worry. It’s not going to happen to us. I have it covered.”

  “How?” Sharrow asks.

  “I’ve got everything under control. We’re not getting recycled.”

  How is he so confident? Does he have some inside track? “What are you not telling us?”

  “What do you mean?” He cocks his head and narrows his eyes, which tells me I’m onto something.

  I shrug, all nonchalant, but I’m actually honed in on his micro expressions for clues to what he’s hiding. “You seem so sure we’re not going to get recycled…makes me wonder if you have some sort of inside information.”

  His eyebrows arch for a fraction of a second, telling me I got a hit. He does have inside info.

  “Wait,” Sharrow says so forcefully we all look at her. “Speaking on inside info…” She turns toward Flyx, but avoids meeting his gaze. “My mom was sure you told Allie something about the past. What happened? How are you not in trouble?”

  Flyx and Daum exchange a glance.

  “I convinced Dietrich it was a misunderstanding.” Flyx presses his lips in a straight line, brow slightly furrowed. It only lasts a moment, but it’s enough to convince me he struck some sort of bargain with Dietrich. That’s how he knows we won’t get recycled.

  I don’t know how he managed it, but it’s a big relief.

  I check Sharrow and Daum—they look relieved too. I feel like we’re close to getting them on board.

  “Listen, you guys,” I say, looking back and forth between them. “If I don’t go back to 1906, my parents and my friends all die, and my life is erased along with them. That’s not supposed to happen. I can’t let that happen. I have to go back. Please,” I say, borderline begging. “Will you help me?”

  Daum and Sharrow look at each other. The silence is thick, and the moment seems to take forever. Finally, Daum looks at me.

  “I’m in,” Daum says.

  Sharrow looks down at her lap. The silence draws out again.

  “Sharrow?” Flyx asks, his voice tender. “Are you with us?”

  She meets his gaze, the first time I’ve seen her really look at him since she found out he doesn’t remember her. “I’m with you,” she says, and I feel like she means it just for him.

  “Are you sure?” I ask her.

  She looks at me and nods. “I’m sure.”

  I lean back, so relieved I’m shaking.

  “Phee!” Flyx says. He looks at his personal and his expression goes flat. “I gotta go.”

  “Now?” Daum asks.

  “I won’t be gone long. You guys’ll be here when I get back, right?” Flyx exits without waiting for an answer.

  With Flyx gone, the room feels hollow, like he took all the energy with him. Or maybe what I’m feeling is relief—for the first time since I arrived in this time, I actually have a spark of hope.

  “Hey, I’m hungry. Anyone else?” Daum asks.

  Sharrow looks at me. “He’s always hungry.”

  “Let’s go eat,” Daum says.

  I can almost always eat, but I’m too drained to go anywhere. Plus I want to be here when Flyx gets back. “No thanks. You go, though.”

  “Sharrow?” Daum asks.

  “Negative. I’ll stay with Allie.”

  “Then how ’bout I bring stuff back? Would you eat then?”

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  “I could change my mind,” Sharrow says.

  “Back soon.” Daum heads for the door.

  When the door closes behind him, Sharrow turns to me. “I’ve been thinking about Bel.”

  “Yeah?” I’d almost forgotten we came here to talk about her.

  “As much as I’d like for us all to be a happy family, I can’t deny she wants my mom to be her mom, not our mom. She doesn’t want me around. But I can’t cog what she’ll do about it, how far she’ll go. You know her better. What do you think?”

  “I actually don’t know her that well. But from what I do know, expect the worst. I’ve seen her be ruthless. She’s capable of anything.”

  “So how do we fight that? Or at least protect ourselves?”

  She’s including me—that’s good. “I wish I knew. All we can do is stay on our guard until we figure out her angle.”

  “Okay.” She looks crushed, but attempts a weak smile. “I need to shower. Back in a few.”

  She disappears behind a door. I settle into the couch cushions, already bored. The room’s got no TV, no books, no games. Not even a deck of cards. I wonder what the personal has.

  I tap the face. “Do you have games?”

  Query not understood displays on the screen.

  I try again. “Start game.”

  Query not understood

  “Open Scrabble.”

  Query not understood

  “Do you have any entertainment?”

  Query not understood

  I give up and flop onto my back, kicking
my feet up on the arm of the couch. I stare at the ceiling, plain white. There are no light fixtures. Instead, it looks like the ceiling itself is lit, like the whole ceiling is a light. Okay, that used up three seconds. What do I do now?

  It’s a lot harder to avoid thinking—feeling—when there’s nothing to do. Now it grips my heart like a fist.

  Mom. Jake. Bibi. The crew. My dad.

  I’ve wondered my whole life who my dad was. I finally found him, and then he was ripped away. I picture Maxen’s face, his smile. Then that image is replaced by Beck. Older, weathered, angry. Still Maxen, but…not. What happened to change him? Will I ever know?

  My throat gets all tight, and my eyes prickle.

  The bathroom door opens. I sit up, pushing away the tears with the back of my hand.

  Sharrow comes out in her mint-green jumper, hair up in a towel-turban. “Something wrong?”

  “Thinking about stuff I don’t want to think about. I’m over it.”

  Sharrow rubs her head with the towel, then tosses it aside. Her hair is even more minty when wet.

  “Hey,” I say, eager to focus on something that’s not my own misery. “What’s with all the wild hair colors, tattoos, and body mods?”

  Sharrow’s brow furrows, but she doesn’t seem offended. “What do you mean?”

  “Some people have them in my time, but here, everyone has them.”

  She shrugs. “It’s a way of showing we have the right to look how we want. To be how we want. When people topside can’t.”

  “So why doesn’t your mom have any?”

  “She interacts directly with the ASPs, so she can’t. She has to talk like them, too. But I don’t think she cares. She was born into her role—her dad was one of the original scientists who discovered the wormhole and started the Resistance. She’s always been really supportive of me not following in her footsteps.” She ruffles her mint hair. “At least until now.”

  “What changed?”

  “She’s making me play junior diplomat when the president brings his daughters to tour the Zone. She says she needs someone she can trust absolutely. But I don’t see why she can’t pick Bel. I mean, she’s her daughter, too. And Bel’s already mod-free, plus she doesn’t have a job…a job she loves.”

  I hear the anguish in her voice. I’m not going to tell her the tattoo lady said there’s more pain to come.

  The outside door swishes open. It’s Daum, and I feel a twinge of disappointment it’s not Flyx.

  Daum holds up two plastic bags. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got a bunch of different stuff.”

  “I’ll flip the room.” Sharrow heads toward the door. “Allie, come over here or it won’t work.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I join Daum and her by the door.

  “Stay in the box or we’ll get an error.” Sharrow points to the ground. There’s a rectangle outlined on the floor I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times,” I say. They look at me like I grew a second head. “Never mind. I’ll stay in the box.”

  Sharrow punches keys on the control panel. The lighting turns red, then there’s a hum, and a rumble. Most of the floor—with the couches on it— lowers away, leaving a dark void. There are more mechanical noises, then another square of floor rises to fill the space, this one holding a round table and four chairs.

  There’s a ca-chunk, then the lights go back to normal.

  Daum walks to the table and unloads the bags. “Spaghetti, enchiladas, spring rolls, veg salad, pizza. Take what you want.”

  “I’ll take the enchiladas,” I say. Closest thing to tacos.

  Flyx still isn’t back, and I wonder what’s taking so long.

  Daum, Sharrow and I are sitting around the table playing a card game they pulled from a hidden cabinet. It almost feels normal. Almost.

  The game is one I’ve never heard of where the goal is to take over an alien planet. I’ve won three out of five rounds so far, and I remember back to playing parlor games with the crew, prepping to go to 1906. I guess I am pretty good at games.

  “Occupation,” Daum says, laying down his cards.

  I lay mine down. “Annexation.”

  “You took it again,” Sharrow tells me.

  “Good game.” Daum yawns.

  It’s catching, and I yawn, too, as I gather the cards to shuffle.

  “We should get some sleep,” Sharrow says. “We have to be at the testing center at nine.”

  “Flyx said he’d be back,” I say. “Maybe we shouldn’t leave yet.”

  “Who said anything about leaving? We flip the room.”

  “About that…” I’ve been thinking about it ever since she disappeared the couches. “Why make rooms transform? Don’t you have tons of unused space down here? I mean, wouldn’t it be easier to have different rooms for different purposes?”

  “That’s old-school thinking,” Sharrow says. “And very American.”

  “Aren’t we American?” I ask.

  Daum chuckles. “What she means is, gobs of people don’t have much space for personal use, particularly in overgrown urbans like Shanghai and Tokyo. This could be a solution. Plus, smaller spaces are more efficient with resources.”

  “But why do it here?” I ask. “Aren’t you guys isolated from the rest of the world? It’s not like your research gets shared. Or am I missing something?”

  “No, you’re right,” Sharrow says. “But we have brilliant scientists here without much to do. My mom sets up research projects and contests so they don’t get bored.”

  “Plus,” Daum says, “one day we won’t have to hide down here. Vank the ASPs!” He punches the air.

  “Flank and vank!” Sharrow answers, like a cheer at a football game. Only in this game, the opponent is the Nazis and the losers might die.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I say. “How exactly is the Resistance trying to stop the Nazis? The videos weren’t super clear on that.”

  Daum shrugs. “We exist. That’s an act of resistance by itself.”

  “That’s it?”

  “It wasn’t always,” Sharrow says. “The founders used the wormhole to go back in time and try to prevent the ASPs from ever taking power.”

  “But that didn’t work out so well,” Daum says. “They discontinued the program. I’ve never actually seen anyone show up from another time before you.”

  “But you stand guard anyway?” I ask.

  “Before yesterday, I’d have said it was a waste of time. Guess not.”

  “Yeah, guess not,” I say.

  “Aren’t you guys dozy? Let’s flip the room,” Sharrow says.

  “We could wait up a little longer for Flyx,” Daum says.

  “I can do another thirty, max,” Sharrow says. “But I’m uber-bored of this game.”

  “I have an idea,” I say. “How about if I tell your fortunes?”

  “You can do that?” Sharrow says, eyes wide.

  “It’s one of my many skills.”

  “Phee,” Daum says. “I’m in.”

  “How do you do it?” Sharrow asks.

  “There are lots of ways,” I say. “I could read your palms or tea leaves or—”

  “Palms.” Daum thrusts his hand out, palm up, on the table. “I consent one hundred.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Flyx

  In the TIC, I find the data Dietrich wants and copy it to the transfer drive. I’m about to erase the evidence of my log-in when the power goes.

  I grip the CTAR, waiting for the back-up lights. But they don’t come on. Rake me—it’s a lockdown.

  Real or drill?

  The odds of an unannounced drill at this hour are low-low. More likely, the ASPs are in the Zone. They could be tearing apart our camouflage right now, searching for our soft, vulnerable core.

  We train for this, but how can you really prep?

  My heart’s doing double-time and my resps are quick as I pull the flashlig
ht from the wall and click it on. I try the door even though I know it won’t open on lockdown.

  I could be here as long as three days. The high-ups figure that’s enough time for things outside to resolve, whether it’s a false alarm, a nat disaster, or an invasion. Enough time for settling out and seeing who’s left: the goodies or the baddies.

  I’ll be fine, physically anyway—the radiation turned off with the power, and there’re more than enough supplies.

  I cross to the emergency box. Everything looks as it should: thermals, flashlight batteries, water, calories. Paperback novels—that’s a laugh. And the three-day countdown timer. I push the red button and the ticking starts.

  Three days isn’t long. It’s an eternity. Wondering who is out there, who’s in control of the Zone. Who—if anyone—will come to the door.

  I sit there on the floor by my box of useless supplies, borderline hyperventilating, runwild with maginings.

  If the ASPs have invaded, it’s unlikely anyone will come for me. Even if the baddies torture goodies for the locay, the surrounding camo is actual, not holo. Collapsed tunnels, huge cement slabs fallen from the ceiling, flooded sections, dead-ends. Near-impossible to nav.

  So I’ll spend three days brain-mauling what they’ve done to my friends, to my home. To Allison. Then, in the end, I’ll never know. Instead, I’m sworn to set off the explosives embedded in the TIC, destroying myself, the wormhole tech, and as many of those ASP-bastards as possible.

  I curl up, close my eyes, and picture Allison’s face.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Whoever chose that timer was an effing sadist. I’ll go crazy from that sound long before three days.

  There’s a whirring. The lights come on. It was a drill.

  My gut’s still tight as I head to Dietrich’s office. The public sector is dark and deserted. I’ve hardly ever been here, and never this late. It gives me the crawls.

  When I knock, Dietrich opens the door fast, like she was hovering there, waiting.

  I step in, and she closes and locks the door. That’s not ominous. Not at all.

  She slips behind her sally desk and sits down.