Time's Echo: A CHRONOS Files Novella

by Rysa Walker

  My eyes kept drifting back to her as we waited for the other two passengers, a doctor and his wife who always came, but always ran two or three minutes late. Driggers was watching Kate too—a nervous glance in her direction, then back down at his feet. No doubt he was wondering if she was Prudence, who attended two or three concerts a year.

  Once the doctor and his wife arrived, we headed back down river. We were maybe a mile and a half in, close to where the Caloosahatchee meets Estero Bay, when the doctor's wife turned around and started talking to Kate about how much she enjoyed the last concert, never even realizing she wasn't talking to Pru.

  Kate smiled and nodded, but she started running her fingers over the cord around her neck, the one that held the CHRONOS key. I could tell she was spooked and I was pretty sure she was just waiting until we reached Estero to duck out of sight and jump back to her own time.

  There was no way I could let that happen.

  We docked at Bamboo Landing and began walking toward the settlement. Just as I suspected, Kate veered off the path almost instantly. I usually led the visitors to the Arts Hall, but I turned those duties over to Driggers, and took off after her.

  I grabbed her hand just as she was pulling up her location on the key. A second later and she'd have been gone. The only way to keep her from jumping away was to answer her questions. So that's what I did. I spent the next three hours spilling my guts, telling Kate everything I knew about the Farm, about the Cyrists, about Prudence, trying to persuade her to trust me.

  It didn't help that she had no memory of the 1893 Fair, no memory of running through a burning hotel with a killer on our heels. We eventually decided it must be something in her future, even though I'd have sworn on everything holy that the Kate who stood in front of me on the banks of the Estero that day was older than the girl from the Expo.

  Before Kate stepped into the boat that day, I'd nearly convinced myself that my mum was right about the Cyrists. That Da had been wrong. That the Cyrists were just trying to avoid the greater evils coming down the pike if someone didn't take action. That the eight-year old kid inside me who'd believed they were evil was naïve, too young and innocent to realize that social change is rarely bloodless and never without sacrifice. That the end justified the means.

  Talking to Kate about the Cyrists violated the trust of everyone I knew. It also made me a traitor to the religion my mother embraced.

  None of that mattered now.

  I don’t know if I loved her then, but I do know that seeing her gave me hope. The little piece of my soul that died when my mum dragged me back to the Cyrist Farm came roaring back to life, and I didn't want to snuff it out again. From the moment I saw Kate on the landing at Ft. Myers, I knew I'd do whatever it took to keep her from pulling out that CHRONOS key and vanishing out of my life.

  Now here I am nearly eighteen months later and she's done just that—vanished. But it was through no choice of her own. And what was true back then is doubly true today. I'll do whatever it takes to get her back.

  ∞

  Franklin and Edna, two of the regional Cyrist leaders, are waiting in the conference room when I enter. Pru is between them, her back toward me. I can tell from the way she's standing that she's furious, and the other two look uncomfortable.

  They transfer the coordinates to Prudence's key and she vanishes.

  This is standard protocol for any meeting with Saul. I've only seen him face to face twice, and both times, someone entered the coordinates into my key. The first was when I was about ten. I traveled with three other likely prospects about my age, so that we could demonstrate our skills with the CHRONOS key before the Great Leader. The other three kids were, like Simon, children of Prudence, probably carried to term by a surrogate. I'm two generations removed from CHRONOS and only on one side, so it's probably no surprise that my abilities were the weakest of the lot. Saul barely looked at me before moving on to the next kid in line.

  I'm more than happy to be ignored. Saul's favorites have a way of becoming dead when they cease to amuse him. One of those kids who lined up with me at ten years of age isn't around anymore. Rumor has it Saul or maybe one of his bodyguards, snapped the guy's neck during an argument, once he was old enough to have opinions of his own. Simon seems to think the rewards for sucking up to Saul are worth the risk, but then he's always had more ambition than sense.

  The second meeting was just me and Pru, supposedly a family dinner with Saul. Pru was nineteen and coming out of her rebellious phase. It was here at the Farm, but she didn't tell me the date. She entered the coordinates into my key and deleted the stable point as soon as we arrived. Saul came out of his suite for all of five minutes. He glanced at me once, tossed a few harsh words in Pru's direction that had nothing to do with me, and slammed the door.

  Pru has always known where and when to locate Saul. Always. If she doesn't have his coordinates, there have been some major changes within Cyrist International.

  After Pru jumps away, Franklin enters the location into my key and I blink in. The conference room I arrive at is almost identical to the one we just left. I step away from the stable point and two more people pop in, followed a few moments later by Franklin and Edna. I guess the gang's all here now.

  Prudence is at one end of the long black conference table, her back to the wide glass wall with a pleasant view of the sun setting over the ocean. That narrows the location down to the west coast of some place near some ocean, so not exactly helpful.

  Saul—or maybe I should say Brother Cyrus, since he's in his white temple robes—sits at the other end of the room, his eyes closed like he's praying or something. Simon's on his left and the five regional Templars are seated around them, each in the dark suit and gold scarf they wear when they preach. Conwell's daughter, Eve, sits to the right of her father. I don't much care for Eve. She acts much too superior for someone who has even fewer abilities with the CHRONOS equipment than I do.

  I'm closer to Pru's end, along with six others, all jumpers I remember from when I lived here. I can't attach names to the other faces in the room. They're definitely not jumpers, however, so I'm guessing maybe senior staff at Cyrist International in 2030. Or bodyguards. Saul always keeps a few of those around.

  There's a strong family resemblance among almost everyone at the table. Even the staffers and bodyguards are Saul's grandkids or great-grandkids. They may have missed out on the CHRONOS gene, but they still find work in the family business. It's a complicated family tree, since most of them were born to surrogates and raised communally. Simon once told me he has a kid who's maybe ten years older than him, but Pru said he couldn't know that for sure. She says Saul's the only one who really knows who's whose. Still, we all make guesses based on skin tone, eye color, and whether they have Conwell's nose.

  Simon, who seems to have been tasked with running the meeting, calls the group to order. I'm not sure that was necessary, since there's none of the idle chatter you might expect before a meeting. Even with ten yards or more between Saul's end of the table and Pru's end, the tension hangs in the air like a thundercloud. Everyone in the room seems nervous, except Simon, but then I'd wager he's been egging both of them on behind the scenes.

  Twenty minutes into the meeting, Saul has spoken only three times, each remark laced with a bit of poison aimed at his daughter. Twice, Prudence responded in kind. Saul's third comment—a very pointed reference to the fact that the Prudence here today is at least the age of her dear old dad—seems to have shut her up, but the look she gave him spoke volumes.

  I pull my focus back to the table and the woman who's speaking—Jeanine, the regional templar for Asia. She's a slightly darker and plumper version of Saul.

  "—we'll capitalize on seven different prophecies in the Book that refer to the region, most notably the Tohoku tsunami, which reads, 'In the year two thousand ten and one, the Nanbu clan must seek higher ground when Tohoku shakes the ground and the waters swallow the earth and all th—.'"

  "Use cautio
n on that one," Saul says. "Pushing too hard prior to the tsunami could have a lot of impact on population size. We don't want to make too many waves."

  There's a pause, and then Simon laughs and most of the table joins him. Prudence just lifts an eyebrow—not sure if she realizes Saul's comment is in horrid taste or if she's just too pissed at Saul to give him any sort of support.

  "All jokes aside," Saul says, "I'm quite serious on that point. No advance warning outside of the inner circle and play it carefully. I left that prophecy a bit vague on purpose. I doubt most people, even in Japan, will connect a clan from the 1400s with the territory they ruled. This way you avoid everyone wondering why you didn't caution them—it was a matter of interpretation, after all—and you can still claim that, in retrospect, it's a clear warning." His eyes narrow as he looks over at Prudence. "Let me guess. You see things differently."

  Pru is silent for about two beats, and when she finally answers, it's directed to Jeanine, not Saul. "You might want to funnel some additional resources into the rescue and relief funds, as penance for our failure to interpret the scripture in time. In order to avoid seeming callous or cold." Her eyes lock onto Saul's with the last words. "More flies with honey…"

  "Than with vinegar, yes. I'm sure we've all heard that one. Use your best judgment, Jeanine."

  Jeanine face grows pale as she takes her seat. Everyone in the room knows that use your best judgment is Saul-speak for do it my way. So, no matter what Jeanine does, someone's gonna be pissed.

  Simon slaps his palm lightly against the table. "And we're done, unless you have something else, Brother Cyrus?"

  Saul shakes his head. "Shall we rise for the benedic—"

  Most of them are halfway to their feet when Prudence says, "What about your own report, Simon?"

  Saul and Simon ignore her and stand, while the others all drop back into their seats like someone snipped their puppet strings.

  Simon gives Pru a wide smile. "Not much to say really. I don't have a specific assignment, other than a few financial details. Kiernan will be keeping me company for those. And I'll be keeping an eye on the bigger picture, monitoring overall developments. Deciding when to launch." Saul clears his throat and Simon quickly adds, "After Brother Cyrus has examined everything and given the go ahead. Of course."

  Saul raises his hands to begin the Cyrist Creed and I join in with the others. The words roll off my tongue naturally, seven short lines that a Cyrist child knows long before he can recite the alphabet:

  We choose the Way, so we are the Blessed.

  As we give to Cyrus, so shall we prosper.

  We choose the way, so we may be Chosen.

  I catch a glimpse of Prudence out of the corner of my eye as we finish the third line. She isn't joining in the recitation. In fact, she's still seated, her elbows on the armrests with her hands forming a tent in front of her. She stares down at the other end of the table, and from this angle, I can't tell whether it's Saul or Simon getting the evil eye. Maybe both. Her head is tilted a bit to the side, like she's trying to piece together a puzzle, and even though she seems more sane today than she usually is at this age, it doesn't look like the puzzle solution is coming easily to her.

  As we reach the "wrath and judgment" line in the Creed, Pru's eyes open a bit wider, like she's surprised. She snarls—a feral sound, almost a growl—and rises part of the way from her chair. I think for a moment she's going to charge straight down the table like a wild beast and rip someone's face off, but then she sees the men near the door, who've taken a protective step toward Saul's end of the table. Pru hesitates, then drops back into her seat. A few seconds later, she pulls up a location on her key and blinks out.

  Although everyone at the table sees Pru leave, no one mentions it. The regional Templars gather in a huddle with Simon and Saul after we finish the Creed, while the others break off into twos and threes. At least half those who were at the table today are more loyal to Pru than they are to Saul and they keep glancing nervously at her empty chair.

  "Want me to take a look at that, kiddo?"

  June will probably call me kiddo when I'm old and gray, assuming both of us live that long. She's given me every vaccination I've ever had, set my wrist when I tumbled out of the loft as a kid, and—at least before I moved away—provided me with monthly contraceptive pills to ensure no little Kiernans started following me around before I was ready. I'm pretty sure she has the most impressive house-call record of any doctor, ever, since she's tended to everyone living at the Farm for about twelve decades.

  June was by my mum's side when she died last year, and made her as comfortable as she could. She's okay—well, as okay as a Cyrist gets. And even though it's pretty obvious that she's Conwell's daughter, the nose doesn't look as unfriendly on June as it does on some of the others.

  She lifts up the edge of the bandage with one hand and makes a clucking noise. "Damn. Somebody whacked you a good one. That needs a stitch or two. Maybe three."

  I'm not too happy about her sticking a needle in me, but I know she's probably right and she'll give me hell if I argue. So I follow her down the hallway and outside to the small clinic.

  She starts the clucking sound again when she takes off the bandage. "Why didn't you come here straight off?" She twists her exam lamp around to get a better look. "There's still glass…or gravel…or something in here."

  "They took my key, June. Pru said she was gonna send you, but Simon ended up coming instead."

  "Hmph," she says, dabbing the area with something that smells foul. "If she knew you were hurt, I don't know why she didn't mention it."

  "She probably forgot. It was…Older Pru."

  It feels weird on so many levels to call her that to June. Even Older Pru is nearly twenty years younger than June. While Prudence didn't actually give birth to her, June has to be her daughter. Aside from me and Conwell, and maybe Eve, all of the jumpers are Pru's offspring. And June inherited the curls, although she says hers went gray long before she hit thirty. Between med school and tending to the needs of Cyrists for the past century, however, she's put a lot more years on her body.

  I feel the prick of the needle and clutch the edge of the table to brace myself.

  "Older Pru. Hmph." She sticks the needle in again. "That's another thing. It should always be Older Pru that we're talking to. Why they tried to sell this whole immortal and unchanging garbage is beyond me. People would follow us without it. But there's no telling either one of them anything."

  June lowers her voice, although I don't think there's anyone else in the clinic. "She'll be lucky if she remembers her name if they don't stop this nonsense. Even our brains aren't designed to handle that many changes."

  Like I said, June is okay, but she's still Cyrist inner circle. Her tone of voice makes it pretty clear that she considers our brains to be far superior to those run of the mill, ordinary brains that can't connect with a CHRONOS key. Of course, it's what she's been taught her entire life, and I doubt she's had much contact with people outside her family and the other Cyrist followers who've lived on the Farm over the years.

  Two stitches later, June dabs the wound with the antiseptic again.

  "Do you know where she took off to after the meeting?" she asks.

  I shake my head. "No clue. All she told me is to be here and that I'm supposed to be doing something with Simon."

  She snorts, pressing the bandage to my head. "Well aren't you the lucky one. At least he should stay sober this time. So, I'm guessing that other thing…that girl…is over?"

  My body tenses up and she exhales, shaking her head. "And from that reaction, I'm guessing she's the one who left you, not the other way around. I know you were head over heels, kiddo, but I just wish she'd have dumped you while your mom was still around. Knowing you were back here with us, where you belong, with the people who care about you—that would have made it a lot easier for Cliona to let go."

  "Don't want to talk about it, June."

  And I don't. From
June's perspective, and my mum's, Kate was just some girl I met in Boston, some brazen hussy who lured an innocent boy away from the Farm. I think the only one here who's aware of Kate's relation to Pru and Saul, aside from Pru and Saul, is Simon.

  I didn't have the heart to tell my mum who Kate really was and why I was with her. It was bad enough telling her I was leaving. I never quite got around to adding the part where I was leaving to fight against the religion that was the only thing, aside from me, she'd cared anything about since my dad died. And once she got sick, telling her wouldn't have served any purpose. It would just have been cruel.

  To June's credit, she doesn't give me any crap about it, just shakes her head as she tosses the old bandage into the rubbish bin. "I loved Cliona like a sister, Kiernan. And I promised her I'd watch out for you, even though I knew it would be tougher than hell to keep that promise with you away. It would be a whole lot easier if you'd stick around here with the rest of us. Or at least pop in for a visit."

  "Mum loved you too, June. But you know it's tough for me…with the key."

  She gives me an annoyed look. "The time difference might be tough. Still, you know as well as I do that the Farm's around in 1905. Nothing tying you to Boston any more, right?"

  I don't answer, but just slide off the table. "Thanks for patching me up."

  "Glad to do it. If you need me, you let me know. And maybe come back when your trip with Simon is over and I'll make your mom's beef stew. My version isn't as good yet, but it gets a little closer to Clio's every time I make it."

  "Sounds good," I say, turning back to give her a smile before I go out the door. "And I'll think about what you said. About coming back to the Farm."

  Her answering smile is a sad one. June has known me since I was seven. She can tell when I'm lying.