by Sophie Davis
“Probably a good idea,” she replied.
“You sure you’re okay?” Gaige inquired, worry drawing his brows together.
Molly waved off his concern. “I’m fine, Fratty.”
Tucking the quilt up around her shoulders, I said firmly, “We are leaving. You are sleeping. Gaige and I will just be right out in the living room. If you need anything, anything at all, just send me a comm. Or yell.”
“So protective,” Molly muttered drowsily. “That’s why I love you.”
After a hurried dinner with Gaige over our mission dossiers, I headed straight for my room and the thrilling prospect of sleeping on my soft, comfortable mattress. Four nights in what they’d called a bed in the eighteenth century had made me stiff and achy, and I couldn’t wait to get a proper night’s rest.
Crawling under the covers, I took only enough time to set my alarm before allowing my head to fall back on the pile of soft, downy pillows. A low moan escaped my throat—it felt that good not to be sleeping on a straw pallet.
As I settled in, thoughts of my locket and what I might find on our trip to Paris whirled through my mind. The digi-board above my desk where I was attempting to track the heritage of my necklace was pathetically empty; only pictures and notes from two possible leads hung there, and both had ultimately been dead-ends.
The Paris lead was far more concrete than either of those, since I had a year, location, and actual photographic evidence. Even still, it would be a nearly impossible feat to find the woman. And yet, for some unknown reason, a part of me was convinced that this time would be different. This time I would uncover a vital clue to my origins.
GAIGE STEPPED ATOP the pitcher’s mound, replacing a freckled boy named Winks who’d moved to shortstop. I faced him down from home plate, ready for him to send what would surely be a lightning-fast pitch. After winding up, instead of a softball, Gaige lobbed a coconut in my direction. I put every ounce of my being into the swing, a giant tulip clutched in my hands. The flower stem connected with the hairy fruit, and I sprinted to first base. Gaige stood on the mound, waggling his behind and sing-songing at me.
“You’re late, you’re late, you’re late for a very important date.”
When I dove for the base, which looked inexplicably like one of the decorative pillows on my bed, a cloud of dirt erupted from the ground and flew up my nose.
“Out of bed!” the umpire cried, slashing his hands through the air in a gesture that meant I was safe.
I woke with a jolt. Four big, brown eyes hovered inches above my face. Blinking rapidly to clear my vision, the twin Gaiges merged into one. With a long, despondent groan, I weakly shoved him away and rolled to the side. Pulling my comforter up to my chin and burrowing in, I clung desperately to the last vestiges of sleep
“I was dreaming about you and your coconuts,” I mumbled.
Gaige put both his hands on my shoulders, pushing me so I was again laying flat on my back. He gazed down at me with utter seriousness.
“Stassi. I…. I….”
My partner’s humorless tone, coupled with his seeming inability to speak, made me open my eyes and return his penetrating stare. Something was wrong. The enormous, toothy grin was missing from his face.
Is it Molly?
“I can’t,” he started again, and then held up one finger in a signal for me to wait. He looked down, as if composing himself.
“You’re scaring me, Gaige. Just tell me,” I gently prodded.
He looked up at me again, his gaze intensifying as he glanced back and forth between my eyes, searching for something. I threw back the covers and sat up.
“Gaige…what is it?” I asked, now fully awake.
“I cannot tell you how long I’ve waited to hear you say those words. I knew you dreamt about me and my coconuts, I just never thought you’d admit it.”
Then something yellow sailed through the air, connecting squarely with my face.
“Ugh, you’re the worst!” I groaned and reached for the bright blob he was waving under my nose.
The end tore off in my hand as Gaige leapt backwards off the bed, and I was left holding a stem-less tulip.
Pointing the stem in my direction, he shouted, “Make Stassi a real girl!”
Gaige made a zigzagging motion through the air, like he was a boy wizard brandishing a green wand. He frowned at me for a long moment, and then repeated the theatrics.
“I said, make Stassi a real girl!”
I threw the flower at him.
Scowling, Gaige inspected the end of his makeshift wand as if it had betrayed him.
“Damn,” he said. “It’s broken.”
Raising my eyebrows, I waited to see where this was going.
Wagging the stem up and down to punctuate each word, Gaige continued with his rant.
“You know, that wand shop has really gone downhill. I’m going to write them a strongly-worded letter about the dangers of selling inferior products.”
Unable to help myself, I burst out laughing.
“You are such a weirdo,” I told my partner. “Why are you here? Did I oversleep?”
Instead of waiting for his undoubtedly irritating reply, I swung my feet over the side of the bed and padded towards my bathroom. The movement required great effort—I was incredibly sore from my little barefoot jaunt the day before.
“For starters, you didn’t oversleep. But you do only have ten minutes to get ready, so…I guess you’ll have to wear that face to our meeting.”
A grimace accompanied his matter-of-fact statement, implying that I really should’ve woken up early enough to procure a different face.
Yeah, he was a real charmer.
“And secondly,” he called after me, pausing for dramatic effect. When I didn’t beg him for answers, Gaige huffed before continuing in a smug tone. “Secondly, I had a breakfast date.”
“You mean you gave a bowl of cereal to some willing young thing you ran in to on the way home last night?” I retorted, starting my morning routine.
“Not exactly,” he replied gleefully.
I stopped, my toothbrush midway to my mouth, when his words registered.
“Wait, what?” I demanded, poking my head through the bathroom door to glare at him. “You’re the reason the term ‘manwhore’ even exists.”
“No,” he responded, drawing out the word to seven syllables. “I did not find a new pillow pal.”
“‘New’ being the operative word?”
Disgusted with my partner’s ever-changing paramours, I stuck the toothbrush in my mouth and went to work cleaning my teeth.
“My date was with Molly!” he declared triumphantly.
Nearly choking on the toothpaste, I swung my head back out into the bedroom.
“Huh?”
“My date was with Molly!” Gaige repeated.
“Does she know that?” I asked. “Or when you say ‘date,’ do you mean you crawled into her bed and ate while she lay next to you in a medication-induced sleep?”
“You’re so funny, Stassi,” Gaige said, his goofy grin still present. “I don’t tell you that often enough, but I genuinely enjoy your wit.”
I shot Gaige a pointed look. He was avoiding the question.
“Was she conscious, or were you lurking like a creeper?”
“That’s not exactly how it happened.”
“Do I need to get a restraining order, Gaige? Put an electric fence around our house and a shock collar around your neck? You’re not allowed to harass my roommate when she’s unconscious.”
“Well, it might be similar to how it happened,” he continued, ignoring my threats. “I mean, she was awake. Sort of. I would say it was closer to a medication-induced haze, not total catalepsy. But we ate, we talked, and I paid, so it qualifies as a date.”
I finished rinsing my mouth and then splashed water on my face.
“Where’s my breakfast?” I asked.
“Well, I ate it. There’s still coffee, though,” Gaige said helpfully.
“Good enough,” I replied. “Now go wait in the living room while I get dressed.”
Gaige dutifully retreated into the hallway.
“Eight minutes, Stass,” he called over his shoulder. “Better start trying on other faces.”
When I took my hair down from the messy topknot I’d donned after the previous night’s shower, I expected it to be a tangled rat’s nest. Instead, somehow my blonde hair fell in pretty waves that reached the middle of my back. Even the fading pink streaks looked more vibrant in the light of a new day. I pulled a comb through the tresses to get rid of the tangles, and ran a bit of coconut oil over them to smooth out the frizz. After applying a layer of suncream to my face, I was good to go. I rarely wore makeup while on the island, so this face was my norm. Gaige would just have to deal with looking at it.
Five minutes later, dressed in pink shorts, a navy tee with white writing that advertised some long-defunct clothing brand, and leather flip-flops, I went to join Gaige in the living room. Except, he wasn’t there.
Loud laughter and the scent of strong, Ethiopian coffee drifted from Molly’s open doorway. I was still groggy from the lack of sleep and unpleasant awakening, but my yearning for caffeine led me to her bedroom, despite being concerned about what I might find there.
Propped up by a bevy of pillows, Molly was sitting in the middle of the bed with her patchwork quilt drawn up over her legs. Gaige perched on the side of the mattress, his body angled so that he was facing her with his back to the door. He was talking animatedly with his hands, making sweeping gestures that looked suspiciously like he was recreating the scene from earlier in my bedroom, when he’d tried to make me a real girl.
“Hey, roomie,” Molly called when she noticed me, waving her fingers in greeting.
“How’re you feeling?” I asked, pushing away from the doorframe and crossing to stand beside the bed. “You look much better.”
She did, too. Her color had improved drastically overnight. The visible burns on her arms appeared far less severe, as well. The prima within our tattoos had incredible healing powers, and was more effective than any of the new-age medications developed by the syndicate’s med teams.
“I feel a million times better, actually,” she said with a tired smile.
“Prima power!” Gaige cried, shooting his fist up in the air.
He really needed to stop watching cartoons from the 20th century.
“I was starving when I woke up, though,” Molly continued. “Luckily, Gaige was nice enough to bring us breakfast.”
“Too bad he ate mine,” I said, giving him a pointed look before returning my attention to Molly. “Just take it easy today, okay? Maybe try not to overdo it? It’s only been like twelve hours, your body needs time to heal.”
She smiled cheekily. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”
After saying a quick goodbye to Molly, I scooped up my dossier from the coffee table and practically dragged Gaige out the door.
Our conversation on the walk to the conference center was all business. Gaige and I reviewed the plan we’d made the night before. Despite their reputations for being tough, I felt confident the historians would be impressed by what we’d learned.
Gaige held the door for me when we reached the conference center, then followed me inside. With a wave to the desk attendant, we crossed the large lobby and headed for the library, which made up the entire west wing of the center. The four-story depository held the syndicate’s massive book collection, as well as the historical archives. Every time I entered the rotunda, I was awed by the impressive array that lined the shelves.
By the mid-twenty-second century, the depletion of the earth’s trees had led to the digitization of books, phasing out the printed word almost entirely. And when the world’s technological networks crashed during the Epic War, many of time’s greatest works were lost to the ether. Cyrus believed this loss such a great tragedy that he offered a credit bonus to runners who brought back bounds books from their runs. Now the island library had the most impressive collection of titles, both print and digital, on the planet.
Given the vast amount of knowledge located in the Atlic Syndicate’s library, it was only fitting that the classrooms for our seminars were located there, as well. Ringing the upper floors of the library’s rotunda, each historian had a dedicated space to brief us on everything we needed to know about the times and places we’d be visiting. Most of the history books were located on the upper levels, divided up by the historians’ regions near their dedicated classrooms. There was also a loft-type space on each floor that overlooked the rotunda, dotted with overstuffed armchairs and sofas that made for comfortable reading.
As we climbed one of the four spiral staircases, a faint ocean breeze wafted in through the open windows on the uppermost floor. A salty mixture of weathered leather, old parchment, and the organic mint oil used to preserve the books swirled around me. I inhaled deeply, loving every breath of the strange concoction.
“Hey, Stassi. Hey, Gaige,” a voice called from above, breaking the quiet.
Tilting my head so far backwards that the ends of my hair grazed my waist, I saw Rupert leaning over the fourth-floor railing and waving excitedly down at us.
“Hey, kid,” Gaige said.
“What are you doing in here so early?” I asked. “You should be sleeping in while you still can.”
Rupert rolled his eyes and pushed a lock of dark hair out of his face.
“I’ve got work soon, I’m just looking for something to keep me busy during my shift,” Rupert replied with a sheepish grin. He held up a thin book. “I found something awesome.”
I squinted, as if that might allow me to read the small print thirty feet above my head.
“It’s a biography on Hugh Hefner,” Rupert continued. “He was this American guy who ran a club where the waitresses dressed up like bunnies.”
“That’s just odd,” I proclaimed, visions of women in giant furry costumes hopping through my mind. The floor must’ve been a veritable cocktail of spilled drinks.
Gaige snorted.
“There’s a lot more to his story than that,” he muttered.
Before I could ask what he meant, the mechanical whirring of a classroom door echoed through the library. A short man with a head of snow-white hair and a black historian’s robe came into view on the balcony of the level between Rupert and us.
“Ms. Stassi, Mr. Koppelman, our meeting was to begin promptly at seven o’clock, if I’m not mistaken?” Historian Eisenhower’s tone was light and inquisitive, as if he really thought he’d made an error.
Eisenhower wasn’t fooling anyone. The scholar was a shrewd old man who never made a mistake. He also never forgot any of ours. Even now, I imagined him placing a black mark beside our names in his mental files.
“No, sir,” I replied, lowering my gaze to show I was properly abashed. Gesturing between Gaige and myself, I muttered an apology from both of us.
“No matter,” he waved off my words. “You are here now. Come along, come along.”
The historian paused to shoot Rupert a meaningful stare.
“Mr. Rudolph, I trust your father has approved your chosen reading material for the day? If not, I suggest you rethink that choice. Mr. Hefner’s biography is not on the list of suggestions that I provided for you. Why not try Theodore Roosevelt or Winston Churchill if you are looking for biographies of twentieth century figures?”
“Y-y-yess, sir,” Rupert stuttered, turning a shade of red so dark it verged on purple.
“Very good,” Eisenhower replied, before turning his attention back on us delinquents. “Mr. Koppelman? Ms. Stassi? Today, please. We have a lot of ground to cover before the sun sets.”
Moments like this one served as a reminder that I was something of an outsider. The historians always addressed runners by their last names, but I didn’t have one. Instead of a familial name, I had a numeric signifier given to me by the work camp. I was the eighty-ninth child to arrive in the year 2446, so
my full name was technically Stassi 2446-89. Though Cyrus had repeatedly told me that I could choose a last name, I hoped to discover my lineage and claim my rightful surname, as opposed to using a placeholder.
“Sunset? He’s joking, right?” Gaige whispered to me as we reached the third floor, drawing me away from my thoughts. “He’s not seriously planning to hold us hostage for the next twelve hours?”
I shrugged by way of answer, a sinking feeling in my stomach. Historian Eisenhower was not the joking sort, which meant there was a very real possibility we’d be here the entire day. Since I’d never been on a run that was as long or involved as this one, I had no idea what to expect.
Eisenhower disappeared though the entrance to his sanctuary as we hurried to catch up. Instead of actual doors, some of the bookcases around the perimeter of each floor slid out from the wall to reveal classrooms when the appropriate book was pulled from the shelf. When closed, they appeared like the other countless bookshelves, disguised to preserve the look and feel of the library. It was something Cyrus had once seen in the past, and insisted on replicating in our time.
Eisenhower’s room was located behind a shelf of French history books—his specialty.
Stepping through the entranceway was akin to jumping time, without the physical sensations that went along with traveling via vortex. While the library was old-world charm, the classrooms were decked out with modern technology, including floor-to-ceiling digi-boards. The only exception to the contemporary setting was the student desks; they’d been salvaged from a time before computing carrels had been invented. The chairs were made of hard, uncomfortable plastic, and each had a small, connected writing table. When using the beam keyboard with our Qubes—the letters projected onto whatever surface the handheld computer was on—it was absurdly cramped.
Sliding in to one of the desks, I stifled a giggle as Gaige wiggled his way into another. At just over six feet, Gaige’s knees bumped the underside of the desk if he tried to sit up straight, so he was forced to sit at an odd angle with his butt resting near the edge of the chair and his long legs stretched out in front of him. Squeezed between the seat back and the writing arm, Gaige looked a like an overgrown child stuffed into a highchair. The spectacle never ceased to amuse me.
