Departure

by A. G. Riddle

  I feel myself holding my breath.

  Neither of us says a word, but our faces edge closer, slowly. I’m not even sure if he’s moving or if I am. Or both of us.

  The booming computer voice shatters the silence. “You have reached your destination.”

  But I don’t look away. And neither does he.

  Behind me the door slides open, and I feel the rush of cool air on my back. Nick’s eyes go wide, and I turn, getting my first glimpse of what’s become of London.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Harper

  THIS IS LONDON LIKE I’VE NEVER SEEN IT.

  In the subbasement of the farmhouse, there was some debate before we left about where to get off the Podway in London. We considered Parliament, 10 Downing, and Scotland Yard, among others, reasoning that if any form of civilized government or law enforcement still existed, it would be found at one of these locations. The rub, however, is that the powers that be and the cloaked beings hunting us may be one and the same.

  In the end, we settled on a compromise: a stop in a residential section, Hampstead—at least, it was mostly residential in 2015. We also reasoned that a stop outside the center of power would give us a peek at the state of things in the city and would likely be unguarded, increasing our chances of escape if things went awry.

  We were right on one count: the Podway station is unguarded. In fact, it’s utterly deserted.

  Nick and I stare out of our pod for a moment, taking in what seems to be a converted tube station. Sabrina, Yul, and Grayson are waiting outside. At the sight of us sitting so close in the pod, Grayson rolls his eyes and wanders off through the cavernous stone and concrete space, which is almost unrecognizable now. Where tracks used to be and trains moved through, a series of large booths now stand, each providing access to a single pod. The sight of the dark, empty rows and columns of pod booths rattles my nerves a bit.

  It’s surreal, seeing what was once a busy tube station devoid of its shuffling crowd: people talking and staring at cell phones, coursing through every nook and cranny. At peak times, people once covered every square inch. You could barely breathe then.

  You could hear a pin drop now.

  Outside, on the street, there’s still no sign of life—human life, anyway.

  Some buildings are boarded up, some battered, their windows smashed in, glass scattered across the empty sidewalks and streets. Grass and weeds shoot up from cracks, and vines twine up buildings, the lush green in bizarre contrast to the crumbling ruins of civilization. This city, which I love so much, which was built by the Romans more than two thousand years ago, which has survived endless conquerors and countless plagues, including the Black Plague and Nazi bombing raids, has finally fallen. But to what?

  The sun has set now, and dim moonlight casts a strange glow over the empty streets. I walk out into the empty lane and stand there, awestruck by the total silence, something I’ve never experienced in London. It’s almost transcendental, hypnotic. I feel like I’m in an overbudgeted television program, though it’s terrifyingly real.

  “What now?” Nick asks sharply, looking at Sabrina and Yul.

  “We . . . hadn’t gotten that far,” Sabrina says.

  “Wonderful.” Nick glances back at the station. “I don’t think we should stay here. We should get out of sight—and talk.”

  “My flat’s three blocks away,” I say, almost without thinking, the mystery irresistible to me.

  “Okay. We’ll check it out and stay just long enough to work out a plan.”

  CLUES. THE THREE-BLOCK WALK TO my flat has provided a cryptic set of leads as to what went on here, passed along in the form of modern cave paintings, if you will: graffiti. Many of the messages are incomplete, washed away by the wind and rain, some obscured by weeds, trees, and vines. But fragments remain, and they reveal a city on the brink.

  PANDORA WAS INEVITABLE.

  MAKE US ALL TITANS OR NONE.

  TITANS BETRAYED US.

  WE DESERVED THIS.

  THE TITANS WILL SAVE US.

  GOD BLESS THE TITANS.

  HUMANITY DIED YEARS AGO. THIS IS JUST THE CLEANUP.

  WE WILL WIN THE TITAN WAR.

  On the street, the outer door to what was once a town house, long ago converted to eight flats, stands open. We climb the narrow stairwell to the third floor, where my cramped flat used to be.

  As we ascend, I suddenly become self-conscious, nervous about showing my place to visitors . . . one in particular. But that’s silly. It isn’t actually my place, not now. I mean, if we are in 2147, then I certainly don’t live here, haven’t for maybe a hundred years. Yet it’s still a bit nerve-racking for Nick to see where I live.

  On the landing, the door to my unit stands slightly ajar. I push it open. Incredible.

  It’s bigger.

  The future owner joined it with the adjacent flat. My furniture’s gone, but the style, the feel . . . it’s mine. I must have decorated this place. Or . . . my daughter did. Someone with my taste. I’m frozen in the doorway.

  Nick peeks his head around my shoulder. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  I wander in, the voices and movements behind me fading away. My first stop is the bookcase. On the top row, a dozen hardcovers with dust jackets line the shelf, all authored by Harper Lane. All have the same look and feel, block letters over mostly black-and-white photos on the covers. Biographies. The first is Oliver Norton Shaw: Rise of a Titan. The next biography is of David Jackson, a name I’m not familiar with. I briefly scan the row below, looking for a different kind of book, in another style, a book about someone named Alice Carter. She’s the one I care about. But she’s not here. Just thick biographies, all in the same style. The lettering runs together as I scan again. There must be twenty or thirty Harper Lane–penned biographies in all. Not a single work of fiction.

  There are also no photo albums. Picture frames cover the tables and small shelves on the wall, but they’re blank. They must be digital, their memories lost to whatever catastrophe occurred here in the absence of power. I ransack the bookshelf, hoping to find something printed, a yellowed photo of me and a smiling gentleman or a child playing in the ocean at sunset. But as I move down the shelves, I find only reference books, two dictionaries, a thesaurus, and an assortment of worn novels, favorites from my youth.

  I hear Nick’s voice—my name, the word Titans—but I move to the bedroom in a trance.

  Again, it’s my style.

  It’s brighter in here. The moonlight glows through the two windows, almost reflecting off the blue walls with yellow accents. I collapse onto the bed, sending a cloud of dust into the air. The floating motes sparkle in the shafts of light, as if my bedroom were a life-size snow globe with me inside.

  My arm drifts down, out of the moonlit haze, to the side of the bed, to the place where I hide them, where visitors, even my closest friends stopping by after a shoddy day, could never find them. I would be mortified.

  This will clinch it.

  I slip my fingers into the crack between the mattress . . .

  Yes, I live here.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Harper

  LYING IN THE BED THAT WAS ONCE MINE, in the flat that was once mine, I bring the two notebooks out from under the mattress. A second ticks by while I struggle to choose which to open first. In my left hand, I hold the notes for the novel I’ve been working on since university. Yellowed, tattered pages hang out of three sides. In my right hand lies my journal, a black-leather-bound volume, one of many I’ve filled in my life.

  Answers first.

  I flip the journal open, and stare at the first entry. Third of August 2015. Incredible. This is the same journal I was writing in before I boarded Flight 305. How? I usually fill one every year. My journaling rate must have slowed considerably. Or . . . the entries stop soon after 2015. I hadn’t thought of that. This could reveal what happened here.

  For a moment I consider taking the journal back out to e
veryone in the living room, but I need to read it first. I almost dread discovering what it will reveal about me.

  I page to the place where my next entry would have been—the day after the plane should have landed.

  _______________________________________________________15 Nov. 2015

  Certainty. Certainty is certainly the word of the day. See what I did there? Yes, of course you do, because I would, and I do. That was certain. And so is my fate, because I’ve selected certainty.

  Okay. I’m giddy. It’s the relief, the lifting of the burden, the crushing, paralyzing decision made: I will write Oliver Norton Shaw’s biography, the sure-to-be-self-aggrandizing, overhyped tome that will change nothing, except for perhaps my fate. I will be well paid. That is certain. I can then use that money to pursue my true passion: Alice Carter and the Secrets of Eternity (note: I have renamed it since yesterday, when it was Alice Carter and the Knights of Eternity; let’s face it, everybody likes a good secret, and with knights we rather know what we’re getting, don’t we?).

  The biography will take a year to write, nine months if I can swing it, and it will be out in another year. The printers will kill half a forest to get the door stopper into stores. Critics will pick it apart. Some readers will love it. Some will hate it. And most will forget about it (the worst possible outcome). But the bottom line is that within two years, I will have cash in hand (my advance is to be paid a quarter upon signing, a quarter upon approval of the finished manuscript, a quarter when the hardcover is published, and the final portion upon paperback publication). Every six months, royalties will be paid, via check, minus my agent’s 15 percent (well worth it, I still think). Two years to financial freedom. That is certain.

  Certainty. I’ve decided to write Oliver Norton Shaw’s biography. I am certain that in two years I will be a full-time fiction writer, my life dedicated to a young British girl, Alice Carter, who discovers that she’s capable of far more than she ever imagined, that her choices and her unique abilities could change the course of history and save her world. I like that very much. That’s something to look forward to. Twenty-four months to go.

  So I took the job. And how did it turn out? Luckily I hold my own autobiography in my hand. I flip through the pages, reading the dates scrawled in my handwriting, searching for a day around two years on . . .

  _______________________________________________________21 Oct. 2017

  Success. I am A Success. Foregoing capitals grammatically uncalled for but necessitated by the following facts:

  • The Sunday Times #1 Nonfiction Author? Harper Lane

  • The New York Times #1 Hardcover Nonfiction Author? Harper Lane

  • USA Today? You guessed it.

  • Reviews. Not all bad. Few punches to the face here and there, but my editor has assured me, “The owner of the Post hates Shaw, has for years. Ignore it.” On another hatchet job: “Gibbs thought he’d be selected to write the book. No mystery why he’s got a bee in his bonnet. Don’t let him chop you up with the ax he’s grinding, Harp.” And on and on. But the consensus is clear: it’s a hit.

  It’s not just the critics and the charts. The readers—and there are readers—people are actually reading this thing and loving it and writing to me, saying so, saying that it gave them some perspective, some courage to go out and change their lives. That’s powerful. Every day, when I open my e-mail, there’s another dose of it.

  That’s one difference. With ghostwriting, I wrote to please my editors. They approved the checks, and the praise and pay came sporadically. Now the encouragement is delivered fresh every day, digitally, one click away. I’m writing for them now. I’m writing for happiness. For pride—in my work, and in the decision I made.

  Interesting. I flip through the pages, searching for the thing I really want to know. Several months later, I spot the key phrase.

  _______________________________________________________7 Feb. 2018

  I’ve met someone. He’s smart (very, very smart), charming, well traveled, and knowledgeable beyond belief. In a word, captivating.

  But it’s not like that. He’s old enough to be my dad. He’s one of Shaw’s closest friends, another Titan founder, and his story demands to be told. The world would be a better place if it were. He says I’m the only person who can write it, that he will approve and support no one else. It’s me or no one. If I say no, the world will never hear his story, never know the trials, triumphs, and reversals of David Jackson. I’ve agreed to do it.

  I turn the page, surprised at the date. She’s pouring every ounce of energy into Jackson’s biography and not much into keeping the journal. Another page turn, and I’m at the book release.

  _______________________________________________________16 Sep. 2020

  In this business, they tell you anyone can get lucky once (I don’t believe it). You do it twice, and they start to believe you’re the genuine article.

  I’m gathering believers.

  They say the biography of Jackson is better than Shaw’s, his life painted in richer tones, transporting readers to the place where he grew up, where he became the man who conquered the financial world and traded the fate of nations like pieces on a Monopoly board. Most of all, they come to understand his conversion at sixty, why he decided to join Oliver Norton Shaw, dedicating his life and his fortune to the Titan Foundation and the betterment of humanity. They see, in vivid brushstrokes, what being a Titan means to him, how it has made Jackson’s life, all his sacrifices, worth it. In short, people understand him. Not just people on the street, but even his most intimate acquaintances. Men like David Jackson aren’t overly personable, don’t form close mates, aren’t apt to emote by the fire with a drink in their hand. He’s told me that even his closest friends have rung him up, saying that they finally get him. People he’s known for forty years have come up to him at parties and confessed that they finally understand something he did decades before, and what he’s trying to do now. Best of all, he’s had calls from enemies, people he’s feuded with in public and private, people who now want to bury the hatchet and join him and Oliver, to become Titans.

  He rang me yesterday, related it all, insisting that I did this, that my biography did this.

  I swore it wasn’t true, and I believe that. It’s his life, his story, his fortune, that will make whatever happens possible. I’m just a storyteller, and his is a story people want to hear. I was just in the right place at the right time.

  I had lunch in Manhattan with Jackson and Shaw last Tuesday. They billed it as a celebration, but they’re connivers to the end. There was a woman there, another Titan candidate, remarkable in her own right. Not as captivating as Shaw or Jackson, but her story speaks to me. And I know it will to others, to every woman, especially those who grew up in rural corners of the world, where opportunities come rarely and only the lucky escape. I like her, and I like her story. I agreed to write it then and there.

  In my mind, I held them up, weighed them: my new subject and Alice Carter.

  One is real. The other is a figment of my imagination, a bedtime tale at best.

  One may inspire girls for generations. The other might be a hit for a few weeks or even a top-ten-grossing film in any given year, quickly buried by the sands of time and the hype of the next potential blockbuster. People won’t remember Alice Carter. But they’ll remember Sabrina Schröder because she’s real. Every second of her struggle is true. Her triumph is an inspiration. Her story needs to be told.

  It’s an easy choice.

  Whoa. Didn’t see that coming. The bio must be on the bookshelf outside, one of the ones I skimmed past, looking for Alice Carter. I’ll check after I finish with the journal.

  After 2020, the journal entries change. The inner dialogue stops. There are no more thoughts or feelings. It’s a bloody almanac now, a history of stats—mostly sales numbers—years, and the biographies I penned. No wonder the journal was never filled.

  Then, suddenly, fifty years later, the terse, just-the-fac
ts entries give way to something else.

  _______________________________________________________23 Dec. 2070

  Alone. Another year. And so is he. Nothing to do but write, my only friend. We’ve confessed our feelings to each other. He has a plan. He’s so brave. It would change everything. For the first time since my mum lay on her deathbed, I’ve been praying. I want it so much. It’s the only way. Without it, he’s unreachable. No, I am. Forbidden.

  The Titans—our last enemy. It’s ironic. The controversial cabal I sold to the world is now the only barrier to my immortal happiness.

  And that’s it. No more entries. You’ve got to be kidding me. Maybe there’s another journal. I’m about to ransack the flat when the bedroom door swings open and Nick leans in. “Hey—” He narrows his eyes, taking in the sight of me lying in bed with the journals, the sadness on my face. “Everything all right?”

  Oh, sure, nothing amiss, just found out I abandoned my dream and passed away a spinster who wasted her final years pining for an unavailable man.

  “Just resting,” I lie, trying too hard to sound casual.

  Nick sees right through it. He already seems to know me so well. Or is reading people part of his job, whatever that is?

  He comes in and sits down beside me, letting the door close behind him. My heart rate climbs. Butterflies multiply and rise like flames from a newly kindled fire. God, I’ve turned into a twelve-year-old. I should be in a mental institution.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks.

  I hold the notebook up. “Been reviewing some of my life choices.”

  “And?”

  “Looked good initially, but things . . . didn’t exactly work out.”

  “For her.”

  “Her past is my future.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” He seems so sure. God, how does he do that? It’s effortless for him.

  I set the notebook aside, and he motions to the living room.

  “I think we’ve made a breakthrough. There’s a museum that may tell us what happened here. And Yul and Sabrina have agreed to talk there.”