by Rysa Walker
“You certainly couldn’t do it without access to a key. And there are people here, in the government, who think it best that this disaster serve as a lesson about the so-called dangers of genetic enhancement in general and time travel in particular. I suspect you’d have a difficult time securing official permission to change anything.”
“Even though hundreds of people died? And…didn’t it change things, having those people stranded in the past?”
“Apparently not in any significant fashion. The official word is that it all averaged out over time, although I’m not sure I buy it.”
Campbell folds his hands over his stomach and belches. One of the little bubble things floats down just above his head, sucking up the smoke or whatever else was in the air around him, then floats upward to a large vent in the “sky” above us, where it’s sucked away with a few others. It’s like the commercial with the cartoon scrubbing bubbles, only flipped upside down.
“Of course,” Campbell continues, “they had the CHRONOS tech people who survived the attack scrambling to see if there were serious historical aberrations in the months after. If they found anything, it wasn’t reported to the rest of us. And truthfully, how would we know?” His eyes flit down to my wrist, where the bracelet Sutter gave me is concealed—barely—by the black lace of my glove. “The rest of us don’t have a device to shield us inside a CHRONOS field. The entire history of the world could change and we’d be none the wiser.”
I feel a hand on my arm and Tate says, “Sorry about that.” Then he glares at Campbell. “What the hell were you thinking? Dana didn’t deserve that.”
“Perhaps not.” Campbell picks something from between his front teeth, and stares at his finger for a moment before flicking the unseen speck onto the floor. “But you should consider your goals in life, Poulsen. Dana Erskine won’t help you achieve them. You’d be far better off focusing your attention elsewhere.”
Campbell looks straight at me when he says the last word. I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. He might as well have just come out and told Tate I’m interested in him.
But why is he championing my side?
Tate gives him a dirty look and tugs at my elbow. “Come on, Pru. We’ve paid our respects to the host. Let’s go eat his food and let him annoy someone else.”
He leads me over to a long buffet and heaps enough food onto a plate to feed three people. I try a few things—some cheese, fruit, a few veggies. But most of the food looks strange, more like decorations than anything I’d actually want to consume. Even the fruits are weird. For every variety I can identify, there are two or three that look like someone crossed a watermelon with a kiwi, or an apple with a blueberry. I’m not very hungry, anyway.
Tate introduces me to a half-dozen CHRONOS people over the next hour, including a younger guy and girl who will be in my cadre—whatever that means—when the museum opens. They’re both polite, but not exactly friendly. The girl studies late twentieth century history, according to Tate, and he started asking both of us about my era…easy stuff, softball questions. It was blatantly obvious that he was trying to get a conversation started, but either the girl didn’t want to talk work at a party or she’s not exactly thrilled about having me on board. Maybe both.
My mind keeps returning to Alisa’s comment about being on display. Every time someone looks in my direction, my whole body tenses up. This time when I look around, it’s Campbell staring at me as he talks to a tall, dark-haired woman. I think she’s older, maybe even older than Campbell. Not sure why I think that. She doesn’t look that much different from the other women in the room. Just something about her bearing. She’s definitely not happy with Campbell, and from the fleeting, scathing look she tosses my way, I’d guess it’s because of me.
Tate follows my eyes and groans. “Can’t believe she actually ventured out of her crypt.”
“Who is she?”
“Saul’s great aunt. Regina Rand. She’s the grande dame of the family. I haven’t seen her at a public event in years.”
The woman’s conversation with Campbell apparently over, she stalks off toward the elevator, casting one more glance in my direction as she crosses our path.
Campbell makes the same little hand motion he used earlier to wave his daughter over. When Tate doesn’t respond and trot straight to him, Campbell rolls his eyes and nudges the dog.
“Maybe we should see what he wants?” I suggest.
“He can come here if he wants to talk to us. It’ll do the fat gox good to get up off his throne.”
Campbell nudges Cyrus again. The dog eventually rouses and plods along behind him. It takes a full minute for the two of them to make their way across the room to where we’re standing, but Tate seems determined not to take a single step to bridge the gap.
“I’m turning in for the evening,” Campbell says when he finally reaches us.
“Thanks ever so much for letting us know.” Tate’s voice is bone dry.
Campbell chuckles. “Don’t flatter yourself. This conversation is merely so I can tell Queen Regina that I delivered her message. She’s not impressed with your choice of companion for the party, Poulsen. Said the girl shouldn’t be mingling.”
Tate mutters something I don’t catch and then adds, “They can’t hide Pru forever. She’ll be working with a lot of these people soon enough. Better to meet a few of them in advance.”
“I should go back to my room,” I say.
Tate starts to protest, but I suspect that’s more a result of not wanting to follow the Rand woman’s request than any real desire to stay at the party with me. And as much as I’m dreading sleeping alone in the apartment, I’m actually ready to leave.
“Personally,” Campbell says flatly, “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do. You can stay down here until sunrise. I just told her I’d give you the message.” He snaps his fingers once, and the dog, who had been staring off in the other direction, looks up at him. “Let’s go, Cyrus.”
Campbell catches my eye one last time as he sticks his right hand into the pocket of his suit coat. The movement is subtle, but I’m pretty sure it’s intentional, and given the angle, it’s meant only for my eyes. A single, brief flash of the inside of his coat, just enough for me to spot the circular neon-green patch of light seeping through the lining of his pocket.
How did Morgen Campbell get a CHRONOS key?
As we go the lift, Tate starts grumbling about both Campbell and the Rand woman, but I tune him out. He’ll drop me off upstairs and head back to Dana. I’d probably have better luck romancing Campbell, and he’s the one with the CHRONOS key, after all.
The idea is repulsive beyond belief, however. And even if I manage to get the key, could I figure out how to use it without shattering half the bones in my body again?
When the door to my apartment slides open, the music starts up right where it left off at number 97. Rick Ocasek is singing uh-oh, it’s magic, and I can almost see the video where he walks across the water.
“You’re tired,” Tate says. “I should get going.”
“Stay. It’s only twenty minutes or so until the fireworks start.” I try to keep my voice light, but it sounds needy even to my own ears. “Stay and watch them with me.”
“You should get some sleep.” He leans down, and I can tell he’s about to give me one of those awful, platonic forehead kisses.
Now or never, Pru. Show him you’re not a kid.
I reach up and pull his mouth down to mine, pressing my body to his. He hesitates for a moment, and then he deepens the kiss. His hand is against the bare skin of my back and then it sinks lower, scooping me upward so that my feet leave the ground and my face is level with his.
As we kiss, a delicious little fire starts to build inside me. I kissed Jason and I kissed a few guys at parties, but it felt nothing like this. I’ve been so caught up in not wanting to be alone, and in finding a way to get home—and yes, those things are still important. But everything else aside, I want Tate’s kiss.
I want him touching me.
It’s not just a game this time.
Tate slides his arm down the side of my body where the skirt is split to mid-thigh. He sucks my lower lip into his mouth, and then slips his hand under the fabric of my dress, under…
It’s an automatic response. I can’t help it. I just…freeze.
And so does Tate.
I reach up for him again, but my feet are now back on the floor. Tate’s arms are flat against his sides, almost like they’re pinned down.
“What?” I ask, even though I know. “What did I do?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s not your fault. I should know better. You’re just a—”
“Don’t!” I scream. “Don’t say it! I am not a kid. I’m the same age she was. Campbell said…” I’m about to go on about the girl in the Viking village, but I instinctively trail off when I see the look on Tate’s face.
“Campbell doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about! His only acquaintance with history is sitting in that chair of his, hashing through the great debates. Maya was fifteen, yeah. In Eystribyggo—hell, pretty much anywhere in the eleventh century—that means she could have been married several years. She could have given birth to a babe or two, she could have watched them die in her arms. Maya wasn’t a schoolgirl. She was a woman. She was ready for…” He waves his hand once between the two of us. “For this.”
“Look around, Tate. No family, no school to attend. I have an apartment. Soon I’ll have a job at the same place you do. I’m not a kid. I’m ready for this, too.”
“No, Pru.” His voice is gentle. “You’re not. And that’s okay. Tell you what. I’ll stick around for the fireworks. We can watch them together.”
Yeah, right, I think. And then you’ll leave here and go bang Dana. But you’ll be thinking of me—or more likely, of your Maya, who’s been dead for centuries.
I want him to stay. Part of me is willing to take what I can get, probably the same part of me that froze up like a nun a few minutes ago. It’ll probably be weeks before Tate touches me again after that.
My inner nun can kiss off.
“No,” I tell him. “I’d rather be alone.”
Except I won’t be alone. Sometime around two or three a.m., when the party is long over, when Tate is snoring next to Dana, or maybe back in his own bed, the other me, the one I killed, will crawl out of the closet.
And she’ll have that damn rock in her hand, same as always.
4
OBJECTIVIST CLUB, ROOM 1013
WASHINGTON, EC
June 9, 2306, 2:47 p.m.
Anya Shaw doesn’t resemble anyone else in my family, aside from her slight build. Like Mother, she’s short and kind of thin, but Anya’s features are more Asian, with dark hair and eyes. I guess her hands are similar, too—small and delicate, with thin fingers. She fidgets her thumbnails back and forth, back and forth as she talks.
“So…how’s your job going?” I ask. Not that I’m especially interested in transportation computing, whatever that is. I just want to avoid the topic Anya always brings up as soon as there’s a lull in the conversation.
Anya smiles. “It’s going well. I’ll probably never be as quick with some of the systems as those who were trained organically, but…I don’t mind the challenge. And Toronto is nice.”
It’s about ten minutes until three, and Anya always stays exactly one hour each time she visits. I pause, hoping she’ll go on a bit longer about work, but the silence is back.
I scramble to think of something non-work related to say. Generally speaking, I avoid talking about my work at the museum, both because it’s boring as holy hell and because it seems to be a sore spot for Anya. She wasn’t asked to return when they started shifting CHRONOS over to function as a museum for the information they’d collected during the sixty years or so historians were jumping around and spying on people in the past. Tate says Anya’s not the only one who wasn’t rehired, but I can see why they didn’t ask her back. Some of my colleagues clearly don’t like working with the daughter of the madwoman who gleefully killed hundreds of people and put hundreds more out of a job. Working next to the person who actually gave birth to her and raised her, who might have had some influence over her personality would be even harder.
Unfortunately, I’m not exactly current on appropriate chitchat topics for the twenty-fourth century. And it’s too late anyway. I can tell from the expression in Anya’s eyes as she looks up from her one-person thumb war that the conversation is headed there.
“Did you listen to the diaries I left last time?”
Great. I’m cornered. No choice but to answer.
“Yes. I haven’t finished them, though. I’ve been looking over some of the stuff that Tate—Tate Poulsen, one of the—”
“I know him,” Anya says.
We haven’t really discussed Tate, mostly because I never like to talk about a project when I’m working on it, and Tate is most definitely a project these days. Pretty much a full-time project. It took six entire weeks to get back to where we were—or rather almost were—on New Year’s Eve. And still, on two occasions, I’ve said or done something that makes him pull back, like a giant turtle retreating into his shell. He’s not seeing Dana anymore. He’s not seeing anyone else, according to Campbell. But he’s still Mr. Hands-Off-the-Jailbait unless I get him into just the right mood.
“He’s the Viking historian. Saul’s friend,” Anya continues, her mouth twitching downward. I guess she realizes Tate must be my friend, too, because she adds quickly, “He always seemed like a nice boy, though. I believe he was in some of Kathy’s classes during her last year of training. I don’t think he was in on it.”
By it, she means the bombing. This is her fourth visit, and each time she has a new fact to add to her theory about what really happened on that day last April when CHRONOS headquarters went kaboom.
Anya doesn’t believe my mother was responsible, but she’s the only one.
I’ll admit that I wasn’t completely convinced at first. Yes, I’ve always thought my mom was a little crazy. Sometimes she would say stuff that didn’t make sense. Occasionally mutter a strange word or sing a song that was…well, weird. She wasn’t like our friends’ mothers. Deborah always said it was just that she was smarter. An academic who wasn’t worried about baking brownies or PTA meetings.
Between the video confession—well, not really a confession, but video evidence—and the other bits and pieces that I’ve picked up from Tate, Campbell, and the two people at the museum who’ve actually been willing to talk to me about it, I think I was much closer to right than Deb, as usual. Our mother is—was—a full-fledged lunatic.
Anya swears the video was rigged. That Saul is the real culprit. That he set her Kathy up. But Tate says my mother’s fingerprints were on everything. All over the office where this supervisor guy was killed, even on the tape wrapped around his nose and mouth when they found the man’s body. All over the kit they found in her apartment that they believe held the bomb.
The video diary Anya left for me last time is supposed to be evidence that her daughter wouldn’t hurt a fly. It’s really two different diaries—a daily training log and a personal diary. Anya turned them over to the authorities during the investigation, but she kept copies.
The Katherine Shaw that I’ve seen in these recordings is my age, maybe a little older. In her training log, she drones continuously about her classes, about history and the various equality movements she studied. That part is totally my mother. God help you if you’re stuck in a room when she starts talking history. In the recording, she also prattles about how she wants to impress some guy named Angelo, who it turns out was the one they found killed and stuffed in a closet. If I were a CHRONOS investigator, I’d use that as Exhibit A showing that the girl cracked under the pressure and decided to take the whole organization down.
The private diary is more interesting. If I ever make it back, I’ll have a bit of ammunition if she starts jab
bering about how I should pay attention to boys my own age. Saul was eight years older than her—eight years!—and she gushes on and on about how he smiled at her and complimented her when she wasn’t much older than I am.
“He got the same message that I did, you know.” Anya stares at me for a second, waiting for a response, and then adds, “Tate, I mean.”
“What message?” I ask, a little hesitantly, because it may be something Anya mentioned, either just now, or during one of the many other occasions when I’ve tuned her out. But I think I’d have remembered if she mentioned Tate.
“The message that was supposed to be from Kathy. Telling us to steer clear of CHRONOS on April 22nd. It was sent from her comm, but…she didn’t write it. Never, not even once in her life, did she refer to me as Mother. That’s Saul Rand, not my Kathy. I was Mom. Or sometimes YaYa, which is what she called me when she was small. And she always signed off as K, just the initial.”
Okay, most of Anya’s conspiracy stuff seems out there, but on this, she has a point. My mom hates, hates, hates for me to call her Mother. I figured this out about a year ago, so I’ve been calling her that ever since. Unless there’s something I really want. Then I switch back to Mom. Deb still says Mom most of the time, but she’s even figured out that the M-word is a kickass weapon when the parental unit is on her case.
The signature thing is dead on, too. Every note Mother ever left for Dad was signed K. Not Katherine, not Kathy—just K.
Thinking about those notes has me thinking about my dad again, and yes, it’s my fault, sort of, but mostly it’s her fault. It’s Mother’s fault for having these damned keys in the first place. Mother’s fault for stranding herself and all of those other people in the past. For killing everyone who worked at CHRONOS. For putting her own mom and Tate out of a job.
I can tell that Anya misses her work. I think she misses her husband, too. But she’s doing okay. She seems healthy and more or less happy, aside from this campaign to convince everyone, or at least me, that her daughter is innocent.
