Time's Mirror: A CHRONOS Files Novella (The CHRONOS Files)

by Rysa Walker

  “But the Club isn’t just for guys. She could go, right?”

  “Well, yeah. Go and be ignored while Saul yakked to Campbell. Kathy went to some events, like the big New Year’s Eve bash, but…”

  That, of course, reminds me that it’s New Year’s Eve, and apparently it reminds him that he’s reminded me. “You’re thinking about your sister again. The music contest thing.”

  His vague phrasing makes me realize that a lot of what I say probably makes zero sense to him…MTV, Billboard.

  “It’s no big deal. And it’s only New Year’s Eve for us. It’s not like Deb’s listening to it right this second without…me…”

  I can’t breathe. I push myself off the bench and start walking away, fast, even though my leg objects and air is only coming through in tiny, panicky sips. I need to get out of here, because I’m about to cry or scream or something else that will make me seem like a blubbering little brat. And that’s not how I want Tate to think of me.

  “Pru?” Tate catches up with me in a couple of his giant steps and takes my arm again. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head, because I simply won’t, can’t talk about it, but then he leans down, his blue eyes level with mine and just oozing sympathy and dear God I want to punch him because now I am crying.

  “Deb isn’t listening right this second because she’s already listened! Without me. Each year until she got old and bored with it, and then she died and she’s been dead for more than two hundred years. Deborah is dead and my dad is dead and it’s all my fault because I swiped that stupid frigging key and—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a minute. Come back to the bench, Pru, okay? Sit down.”

  I don’t have much choice, really, because he does that half-picking me up thing again, and my butt hits the bench almost before he’s done talking. He puts his arm back around me and says, “You need to cry, then cry. My shoulder is waterproof.”

  His shirt is waterproof too, as it turns out. That’s probably a good thing, because it’s two or three minutes before I get myself back under control. Unfortunately, there are now two gray streaks on his shoulder.

  “What’s wrong with your eyes? You’ve got dark circles—”

  Oh, great. Raccoon eyes on top of everything else.

  “Mascara.” I rub the area under my eyes with my knuckles, hoping I’ve gotten the worst of it.

  “What’s it for?”

  “Making a mess when you cry.” He gives me a strange look. “I’m joking. It’s to make your eyelashes look longer. Darker.”

  “Oh.” He’s silent for a moment. “You can probably get that done in the Juvapods and it won’t rub off. But…you don’t really need it. I mean, your birthday is coming up in about a month, right? You’ll be sixteen. That’s the age everyone starts field training, so you don’t look much younger than the last batch of CHRONOS trainees you’ll be working with at the museum—well, the three of them who weren’t at headquarters that day. You’ll fit right in just as you are.”

  If we count from my actual age when I landed, I just turned fifteen two months back. But February 4th is my birthday, and if everyone wants to let me skip ahead ten months or so, they’ll get no argument from me.

  Tate never even mentioned my earlier lie about being eighteen. As I see it, there are three equally plausible reasons: he didn’t hear what I said, he doesn’t think age is important, or he just plain isn’t interested. And since there’s no way I’m going to admit I put the damn mascara on so that he’d think I looked older, I just nod toward the OC building. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait a sec. I wasn’t going to mention it since it’s your first day out of the med center, but…I’m thinking maybe you don’t want to be alone on New Year’s Eve. Campbell’s annual party is tonight. Everyone at CHRONOS is invited. He thought about canceling, since there’s not many of us left, but…it’s a tradition. He’s holding a downsized version in Greenwich Hall. Why don’t you come? You can meet some of the people you’ll be working with. And if you get tired, you can just take the lift back up to your room.”

  “Sutter said—”

  “If Sutter’s there and he’s whizzed off about it, I’ll deal with him. The party is mostly CHRONOS and you’ll be working with these people. You can’t spend your whole life in hiding.”

  OBJECTIVIST CLUB, ROOM 1013

  WASHINGTON, EC

  December 31, 2305, 4:02 p.m.

  “It’s close,” I say, after another sip of the root beer. “A little too sweet, maybe? But the pizza is really good.”

  There are some things I could learn to like about the future. This replicator thingamajig, for example. Tate called it a “food processor,” which I would have sworn is the name of an appliance they were hawking on TV last Christmas. Dad jokingly said he was going to get one for Mother, because her cooking is pretty awful. We eat a lot of frozen dinners and takeout.

  “Well, you can tweak the formulas,” Tate says, “until you get it the way you like it. Or combine recipes, although that can backfire. One thing I miss is bringing back samples of stuff we found and liked from the past. Your dad—sorry, I mean Saul—he’d bring back a different type of beer almost every trip. Had a sample of Pabst Blue Ribbon from the World’s Fair back in 1893, which is the actual year they earned the blue ribbon. The system is pretty good at reproducing the samples for stuff from the twentieth century and later, and simple stuff from earlier. I’ve been trying to recreate the mead recipe from Eystribyggo that I lost when my personal quarters at CHRONOS were destroyed. It was so much easier when I could just put a few drops in the system and let it decide how much honey or whatever.”

  He takes another sip of his drink and adds, “You may be able to find some eighties stuff in the files here at the OC, though. Saul would sometimes bring back a historical sample for Campbell to feature in the dining halls or bars, although it may have been just to rub it in that he could jump and Campbell couldn’t. He’d always make a point of noting that the processor version didn’t have quite enough basil or lime or whatever, just to annoy him.”

  We finish the last two slices of pizza and Tate shoves the plates and glasses back onto the same shelf in the wall that served them up a few minutes ago, complete with a steaming hot pineapple, jalapeno, and onion pizza that I think I enjoyed more than Tate did. The dishes vanish as soon as he pulls his hand away.

  I’m really tempted to ask him to explain how the damn thing works one more time. But no. I will think of it as a microwave oven. Just a tool. If I try to puzzle out how everything works, I won’t have enough spare brain cells to figure out a plan for getting back to my own time.

  With the dishes now done, Tate says, “Listen, I’ve got some stuff I need to take care of. How about I pick you up here a little after nine and we’ll go down to the party. That’ll give you time to get ready, even nap if you want.”

  “Okay…” I glance down at the black pants and t-shirt I’m wearing, which is probably the dressiest outfit in my bag. “So, it’s a casual thing, right?”

  “Oh, no. I do think it’ll be slightly more low-key this year, since it’s the first gathering after the attack and the memorials and all, but it’s definitely a dressy affair. You’ll need to whip up something new. You learned how to use the tailoring pods in the hospital, right?”

  “Yes, but…I don’t have any money or credits, whatever you call it. I don’t even know where to find one of the pods.”

  He laughs and nods toward the bedroom, the only room in the place aside from this one. “Check the closet. If you search by date, you can probably pull up designs worn to the last party. I know you won’t want to wear the exact same thing, but it might give you an idea. And there are Juvapods if you want to get your nails done or fix your makeup…although they might be full on New Year’s Eve. Do you want me to check Octavia?”

  A blank look is all I have, because I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  Tate laughs. “Octavia will schedule appointments, answer questi
ons, whatever you need. Should I check?” I nod, and he says in a slightly louder voice, “Octavia, can we get a Juvapod appointment this afternoon for Prudence?”

  A voice that reminds me of Krystal on Dynasty replies, “The earliest opening is five thirty p.m. Shall I reserve it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Confirmed for Juvapod seven at five thirty this afternoon.”

  “Where are these pod things?” I ask Tate. “What do they look like?”

  “Third-floor gymnasium. Ask for directions in the lift if you have trouble. And you can’t miss them—they say Juvapod right on the door. There’s usually someone at the front desk—or at least an infobot. They’ll help you if you say it’s your first time.”

  The idea of venturing out on my own is terrifying. I guess it shows on my face, because Tate laughs again, squeezing my shoulders.

  “You’ll be fine, kid.” He plants a quick, big-brotherly kiss on the top of my head.

  I stand there frozen as he walks out the door.

  Kid. Ugh.

  After he leaves, I sink down onto the sofa, glaring at the door.

  But…maybe there is a bright side. For the first time since I crash-landed here, I have a challenge. Not a physical challenge. I’ve had plenty of those. But a goal. A mission.

  Jason, my violin instructor, was nineteen. Not much younger than Tate. During my very first lesson, I decided I wanted Jason to notice me. Before the third lesson was over, he was paying more attention to me than he was to the music, although I’m not sure you could call what I was doing with the violin music. If I’d actually made it to that last lesson…

  Challenge accepted.

  By the end of this evening, Tate Poulsen will not be thinking of me as a kid.

  Not by a long shot.

  3

  OBJECTIVIST CLUB, ROOM 1013

  WASHINGTON, EC

  December 31, 2305, 4:22 p.m.

  I spend the next hour sitting on the little bench in the closet, browsing through the styles worn in the past at these parties. There are holographic video clips of the party itself, and you can click on the people to get more information about the style and fabric. It’s not hard to pick Mother out of the crowd. Last year, she wore a floor-length silver sheath that looks entirely unlike anything I’ve ever seen her wear. With every movement, the fabric changes hue slightly, like it’s picking up and reflecting colors from around the room.

  I flick my finger against the image of another woman standing nearby to pull up her information. Delia Morrell is absolutely stunning, with coloring similar to mine, dark hair and pale skin. The dress she’s wearing—royal blue with gold inset panels at the waist—hugs every one of her curves, from the plunging neckline to the skirt that’s slit to the thigh on each side. The tall stiletto heels pull her almost to the height of the man next to her, who’s identified as Abel Waters—a taller, more muscular Billy Dee Williams, minus the mustache. He wears a simple blue-gray suit, and his hand rests on the woman’s waist as he whispers something in her ear. She smiles, and I find myself wishing there was audio so I could listen in.

  I mentally paste Tate’s face on Abel and mine on Delia. I’m tempted to actually ask the system to do that. I suspect it could, but I’d be mortified if anyone ever saw it.

  “That dress, Octavia,” I say, as I strip out of my clothes and toss them onto the shelf. It still feels weird to see them disappear, but one of the workers at the hospital said it’s really more efficient this way. No laundry, no growing out of your favorite outfit, and all of the raw material is recycled for later use.

  “Crimson with black inset panels. The same shoes, but in black. And…any undergarments I need to make me look like her.”

  “Please stand still with your arms extended.”

  Is this why Mom hated clothes shopping so much? If she grew up with something like this, where you could order what you wanted and it always fit perfectly, shopping at the mall must have been pure torture.

  And maybe that’s why she took long baths and showers. No tubs here. The shower thing at the hospital was called a zephyr. It had steam, and it was wonderfully warm, and whatever tingly thing it does to your skin leaves you squeaky clean afterward—including your hair. It even lets you choose different scents and it dries off the few droplets that remain. No more waiting forever for my hair to dry, and that’s a huge bonus, because no one wants to see these curls if I have to use a blow-dryer. But I do miss the sensation of shampooing my hair and the suds sliding down my legs…

  Damn!

  As soon as the scan is done and the tailor moves on to the next step, I slip out and peek inside the zephyr tucked into the bedroom wall. It’s a little larger than the one in my room at the Med Center, and unfortunately, it’s missing the same thing. A razor.

  I pull up my pants leg and wince. Full Sasquatch mode. No nylons in the world could hide that.

  A quick inspection of the toiletries menu on the closet tailor reveals no razors, no electric shavers, no Nair. They don’t even have tweezers. Maybe women don’t shave in the future? Like that colleague of Dad’s at the university.

  Shudder.

  “Octavia, where can I get a razor?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A razor? To remove the hair from my legs.”

  “Oh,” the info voice says. “There are no depilatory devices in the system. Hair removal is available in the Juvapods.”

  Major sigh of relief.

  A faint ping from the closet indicates that my outfit is finished. I slip the heels onto my feet, because I’m pretty sure they’re going to require a practice session. They’re a full two inches taller than anything Mother would let me buy, and the few times I’ve tried on a pair like this in the store, I felt like I was on stilts.

  As soon as I slip my feet inside, however, I can tell these are different—it’s like walking on a cloud. No pain at the base of my foot, and they seem to have built-in stabilizers, like the leg braces I wore when I first began rehab. No wobbling, even with my still slightly shaky legs, and every now and then, I feel that same faint tingle running from my toes up the back of my legs.

  The dress is gorgeous. I hold it up against my body and look in the mirror. But I don’t try it on. I tell myself it’s because looking like Little Fuzzy below the knee would totally ruin the effect, but that’s only a tiny part of it.

  I miss Deb. Half the fun of going anywhere was sharing it with her.

  “Octavia, could you play the top 100 songs of 1983, in reverse order, please?”

  “I’m sorry. If you pick a year after 2100, I’d be happy to comply.”

  Oh well. Worth a shot.

  “Do you have a specific artist—”

  “Michael Jackson.” I say without hesitation. “1982. Thriller album.”

  When the first notes of “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” hit my ears, I sink down onto the bed. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine I’m back in our room and this has all been one long, extended bad dream.

  Almost.

  OBJECTIVIST CLUB, ROOM 1013

  WASHINGTON, EC

  December 31, 2305, 9:11 p.m.

  “Tate Poulsen has just exited the lift,” Octavia announces. “Shall I let him in when he arrives?”

  “Yes, please. And change the music to…um…Spandau Ballet. 1983. ‘True.’ Lower volume twenty percent. Oh, and dim the lights.”

  Since I’d prefer that Tate doesn’t know I’ve been sitting on the couch staring at the door for the past twenty minutes, I duck into the bedroom and check my reflection one last time. My makeup is perfect after a little bit of trial and error in the Juvapod. The “shaving” was also easy and painless, although if I’d followed the instructions of the jerk at the information desk, I’d have been bald from head to toe. I’m not entirely convinced that his misinformation was accidental. The man looked like he’d swallowed cat poop when he saw my name on his screen.

  The butterflies in my stomach are buzzing around like they’re on speed. I
’d feel much better if Deb were here to confirm that this is the most fantastic I’ve ever looked.

  Come on, Pru, you can do this.

  Ten slow, deep breaths before I walk in.

  And…Tate’s facing the other way, toward the window, which completely ruins my grand entrance.

  He looks really good, although he could use a haircut. The navy blue suit sets off his unusually broad shoulders. If Tate lived in my time, he’d never be able to buy anything off the rack. That chest would split J. C. Penney’s shirts faster than the Hulk. And the cut of the pants is different these days. A little more like something a football player would wear. Not shorter, just a bit more formfitting.

  I wait a few seconds, hoping he’ll sense me standing there, but whoever tweaked his genetic makeup must not have been worried about other Vikings sneaking up on him.

  And then I notice the headphones.

  They look like my headphones.

  He doesn’t look up until I tap him on the arm. His eyes move from my face down my body, the welcoming smile fading along the way. Then he takes a step back and pulls off the headphones.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I try to keep my face from falling, but it’s no use. “You don’t like it.”

  “No! No…you look great, Pru. It’s just…I thought I was the one with the big surprise, and you’ve aced me. That dress just…” He exhales loudly and shakes his head. “Let’s just say it makes me wonder what happened to the kid I left here a few hours ago.”