by Rysa Walker
“Can everyone see? And hear?” Tilson asks in a voice that seems too loud for such a small room.
There are general noises of consensus, and then Julia speaks from Tilson’s laptop. “We’re fine here.”
Ah. So she’s being conferenced in.
The image Tilson projects onto the wall behind him looks like a Koosh Ball, with multicolored spokes coming out from the core. Apparently we’re diving straight into the briefing with no introductions.
“This is what we’re up against,” he says. “There’s some similarity to H5N1, which some of you may know better as the avian flu, but also some rather striking differences. I won’t pretend I fully understand how it works. My epidemiologist colleague understands a bit more, but this isn’t a naturally occurring virus. It was manufactured to be highly lethal and spread quickly through the water supply or through contact with bodily fluids. Once inside a host, it mutates rapidly. There is a ninety-seven percent infection rate, and in fifty percent of the test subjects it shifted to airborne transmission—that is, via sneezing and coughing—within two days.”
He pauses a moment to let that sink in. “It has excellent potential as a weaponized virus because in its original, unmutated form, it’s not particularly dangerous, assuming it’s handled with care. The survival time outside of a host is relatively short—an hour at most on dry surfaces. A high concentration of bleach or other medical-strength disinfectant can kill it. And the survivor sample suggests it’s preventable by vaccination with no obvious adverse effects.”
Just looking at the thing causes a tight fist to clench around my stomach. I’m hesitant to interrupt him, but to the best of my knowledge, the water sample I brought back from Six Bridges is in a refrigerated safe at Katherine’s house. Connor didn’t say anything about giving it to Tilson. And I have no clue what he means by survivor sample.
“Excuse me, Dr. Tilson, but . . . how did you get these samples?”
There’s a short pause, and then Julia answers via the computer, “That hasn’t happened for her yet.”
“Oh.” Tilson looks at me apologetically. “Apparently we have a scheduling issue. I’ll sort it out with you afterward.”
Well, at least that explains how he knew me.
He clicks to move on to the next slide, and the fist that was clenching my stomach pulls back and punches it. The image on the screen is the newspaper photo of Six Bridges, larger than I’ve seen it before because it’s being projected. The kid’s arm hanging over the edge of the pew is almost life-sized. I flash back to Kiernan’s words as Jackson and Vernon ran down the path to the chapel. Ghosts, think of them as ghosts.
Doing that isn’t any easier now than it was then. And I’m clearly not alone in my reaction to the photo. The others at the table look sickened, and some avert their eyes from the screen at the sight of dozens of corpses, the skin strangely mottled and the bodies emaciated, almost like someone squeezed them dry.
“This is what the virus does. Most subjects died within a day. This image was taken by local authorities in 1911.”
I want to ask where he got the picture, but I already know—Future-Me will give it to him along with the samples.
A voice from the computer asks, “How do we know this was the result of the virus?”
Tilson answers, “The sample was taken from the village well.”
He clicks again, and I brace for another image, but it’s a map, one that I recognize as the regional map for Cyrist International. It’s divided into six sections: North America, Latin America, Europe, Africa, East Asia, and SoCeAsia, which must mean South Central Asia. A major city in each area is designated with a star and the name of the regional Templar. The North American star is over DC and the name next to it is Franklin Randall. That’s odd—I thought Patrick Conwell was the regional Templar? I don’t recognize any of the other names, although I remember Kiernan mentioning someone named Edna, and there’s an Edna Sowah listed by the star near the Horn of Africa.
“Our working assumption,” Tilson says, “is that Cyrist operatives use the six regional headquarters as distribution points to disseminate both the virus and the vaccine to the various national and local temples. All members have been vaccinated—”
“Excuse me.” The woman’s voice coming from the computer sounds vaguely familiar, but it’s definitely not Julia. “There’ve been a few regional immunization programs in temples located in less-developed countries, but that’s the only . . .”
The voice fades as Tilson turns the computer toward Ben, Charlayne, and Max, who are holding up their right hands with the lotus tattoo pointed forward.
“The tattoos?” she says. “Really?”
Tilson nods and continues. “As I was saying, members were vaccinated via intradermal DNA tattoos at their local temples during their initiation ceremonies. At some later point, those same regional and local Templars will introduce the virus into local water supplies. The tainted water will only reach a small percentage of the population, but at that point, given the rapid mutation, it will be impossible to—”
The woman’s voice cuts back in. “Surely you’re not saying all six regional Templars are involved? And local Templars, too? My understanding was that it’s only a small group within the inner circle . . .”
There’s a moment of silence, then several others at the table chime in with similar comments. Finally Tilson clears his throat, and the noise gradually dies down.
“It’s entirely possible that the local Templars, and possibly some of the regional leaders as well, have no clue what they’re doing. They’ll simply be following orders from above. Let’s hope that’s the case, otherwise we’re dealing with evil on a far more massive scale than I wish to contemplate. But we don’t know how deep the conspiracy runs, and we don’t know which Templars are involved. With so much at stake, we have to assume the worst, wouldn’t you agree?”
There’s more mumbling, but no one disagrees explicitly. Then the mystery woman speaks again. “What about the children? Cyrists don’t receive their tattoos until they become Acolytes. That’s usually around age ten, sometimes even later.”
Tilson sighs. “Children who haven’t been tattooed—and yes, that’s pretty much all of them under age ten—are unprotected. Babies have some degree of immunity from their mothers, but our model, based on the limited animal studies that were performed, suggests eighty percent mortality even among newborn and nursing infants.”
“But that’s . . . monstrous.” The woman’s voice is soft. She sounds close to tears. “How could anyone think people would remain loyal if you saved their lives but not the lives of their children?”
There’s a long silence, so I take the opportunity to whisper a question to Charlayne. “Who is that speaking?”
She shrugs. “Don’t know. Julia’s boss, I think.”
That confuses me even more, since I didn’t realize Julia had a boss.
“Monstrous, indeed,” Tilson says. “I should also add that the immunization status of anyone who received their tattoo at a New Cyrist temple is suspect. Miss Singleton and Mr. Raji, for example, showed no trace of immunity.”
Ellicott looks down at the tattoo on her hand and gulps. The two men glance at theirs as well, so I think I know where they got their tattoos.
Tilson clicks to advance to the next slide. Two images of a CHRONOS key appear side by side. One is intact, but the other image shows two metal disks split apart, with what Connor calls the “time travel guts” open to view. Apparently Tilson has tools at his disposal that Connor doesn’t, because all Connor has been able to do is separate the sides enough to get some sulfuric acid inside, rendering the key inactive.
Tilson clicks on the split key and zooms in for a closer look. It’s like a bunch of little dots, but in the center is an area that reminds me of this ball my dad used to have in his office. If you touched the outside, it changed color, with little arcs of electricity shooting up toward the inside surface of the ball near your fingers.
&nbs
p; “That’s the plasma battery,” Ben says.
He’s whispering, but Tilson must have pretty good hearing, because he clears his throat again and says, “Perhaps you’d like to take over, Mr. Raji?”
“No, sir.” Ben slumps down and looks back at the screen.
“Our young friend is correct. One of my former students, a professor at MIT, helped me analyze the device, which CHRONOS historians called a key. She confirmed that it is indeed powered by a plasma battery. We know, based on experimentation, that the device has a mechanism for detecting the genetic makeup of the individual holding it. I cannot operate the key, for example, while Miss Keller and others who inherited the CHRONOS gene can. Aside from that, the only thing we’ve been able to decipher is that one of the chips manages a counter that flips every twenty-four hours. Mr. Raji proposed, and I believe he may be correct, that the counter marks the actual age of the device—that is, how many days have elapsed since it was created around 2250.”
Senator Ellicott exchanges an amused look with one of the two men sitting across the table, who’s shaking his head and chuckling silently. They’re obviously not buying any of this.
When Tilson clicks the pointer again, the screen displays a big question mark.
“This is to visually remind you that everything else I’m about to tell you is largely conjecture, based on the information that we have at hand. It may not be accurate.”
Ellicott laughs. “That slide belongs at the beginning of your presentation.”
Tilson gives her a brief glance, but doesn’t take the bait. For the next few minutes, he explains how the CHRONOS key works. I understand virtually none of what he’s saying. The only physics I’ve studied was in general science class, and we didn’t discuss anything temporal. I do follow some of what he says about the many-worlds theory—the idea that every action we take could spin off a new reality. Katherine and Connor mentioned this notion, and it’s one that I kind of like because it means that Dad’s other kids that I met briefly might still exist. On the other hand, Trey isn’t as big a fan of that theory, since it means that my saving Katherine at the Expo spun off some alternate universe where he was simply left behind.
“. . . tend to believe spinning off countless alternate universes is simply unmanageable . . .”
“. . . more plausible option might lie in something known as string theory . . .”
My eyes glaze over at some point. Tilson must have that uncanny teacher’s ability to hone in on the student whose brain has left the building, because the next thing I hear is him saying, “. . . would you agree, Miss Keller?”
Why couldn’t he have picked on Senator Ellicott? I was just sitting here, and she was actually texting while he talked.
I give Tilson a pained smile. “Could you repeat the question, please?”
“Certainly. I was asking whether your experience conforms more to the many-worlds hypothesis, with infinite parallel universes, or to string theory, which suggests that they are limited. Do smaller changes result in a time shift?”
“Um . . .” I stop and take a sip of my soda. “No. Any time I make a jump, any time one of the original historians made a jump, there were small changes. I step off the sidewalk in front of someone, causing him to miss his taxi and therefore miss a meeting or whatever—that’s a change, right? And even the changes that resulted in the creation of the Fifth Column seemed . . . I don’t know . . . localized, maybe? I felt something, but it wasn’t the same sensation those of us with the CHRONOS gene felt on three occasions when there were massive changes.”
Except there have now been four massive changes, the latest one leaving the others in the dust. But out of everyone else in the room, I’m pretty sure only Max felt it, and I’m not sure how much information Julia wants me to share with the others.
“I’d guess maybe small changes don’t spin off a new reality,” I say, “or if they do, that reality merges back with the other one. But the string theory part . . . no idea.”
“So,” Bensen says, “you’re saying temporal inertia? Time sort of mends itself if the rift isn’t major?” The question is for me, but all he gets back is a clueless look. “Like on Doctor Who or Star Trek? Time resists being changed.”
Selene Ellicott snickers. “In case you don’t know, those are science fiction shows. Pretend. Make-believe. Not real.”
Bensen’s right eyebrow quirks upward a few millimeters. This is actually a pretty strong reaction from him. I swear, it’s like someone botoxed the guy’s entire face.
“The people who built the CHRONOS equipment are more than two hundred years in our future,” Bensen says. “If you go back a mere hundred and fifty years from today, someone—especially someone with limited imagination—would say the same thing about airplanes, helicopters, rockets, nuclear weapons . . . not to mention the device you just used to check email.”
Ellicott rolls her eyes but doesn’t respond.
Tilson looks at Ben, nodding slowly. His mind must still be on what Ben asked before Ellicott’s interruption. “It could be. It could very well be that only massive change triggers a full timeline shift—or spins off a new world, whatever you want to call it. The CHRONOS key creates something of a bubble around the key holder, assuming that person has the gene.”
“The field works on others, too,” I say. “They can’t use the equipment, but if someone without the gene is inside the field when a change occurs, they’ll remember both timelines. It’s not a pleasant sensation, and it seems even rougher on them than on those with the gene. But to get back to what Bensen was asking, I don’t know if it’s like time mends itself. It’s more like the new stuff overwrites the minor history. The scenery changes a bit, but the train stays on the same track. But that could just be the way we perceive it.”
Ellicott leans back in her chair, arms crossed, clearly not buying anything we’ve said. Maybe it’s the jaw-clenching color of her jacket, the heavily lacquered platinum-blond hair, the tattoo on her hand, or all of the above, but Ellicott gives me a bad vibe. I can’t help but feel that Julia or whoever vetted the members of the Fifth Column made a mistake including her.
Tilson must be thinking something similar. “I believe we need to address the time travel skeptics in the room before going any further.”
He slides a folded section of the Washington Post toward the middle of the table. “September 17th. Pass it around so all three of you can find the ad you submitted. One of you was a bit of a comedian, so I spotted yours right away—it’s circled in blue. Lost dog. Doberman. Answers to Pincher. Reward if returned to Sixteenth Street Temple.”
The guy next to Tilson picks up the paper and examines it for a moment, then mutters a curse before sliding it to Bow Tie. “You didn’t happen to bring the stock pages, did you? Or maybe the sports section?”
“I did not. In fact, I put most of the paper through the shredder without reading it. But those of you who are current or former members of the temple should now have a good idea why Cyrist investment portfolios are so solid.”
“Could explain a lot of things,” Bow Tie says. He casts a sideways look at Senator Ellicott as he pushes the paper toward her. “Like why they’ve had such good luck in recent elections. And getting their bills through Congress.”
“That’s a good point.” Ellicott turns to me. “Cyrist International has a sweet deal right now. Why cause a global catastrophe when they can do almost anything they want with impunity? A majority of Congress is in their pocket.”
“Not to mention the presidency,” Max says.
Ellicott seems taken aback for a moment, although I’m not sure why. “Yes. Of course. The Supreme Court hasn’t ruled against them on any important case in years. And it’s not just the U.S.—most world governments have become exceptionally Cyrist friendly in the past decade. Why give that up?”
She’s clearly expecting me to provide an answer, but I don’t have one, at least not one that would appeal to her sense of reason. All I can see is Saul’s face in th
e chapel at Six Bridges. Or the look in the eyes of the woman in the stable at Estero as she slit her own throat. Their expressions were very similar—joyful, almost peaceful.
“Are you asking me to provide you with a logical explanation for genocide?” I ask. “Has any rational group ever engineered a genocide? I’m sure the leaders and members think they’re acting rationally, but no one else sees it that way.”
Ellicott apparently found the ad she was hunting for, because she shoves the paper toward Tilson. “So what? This proves nothing. You could be tapping our phones or monitoring our computers. You could be colluding with someone at the Post. I want firsthand evidence that she can time travel.”
“Such as?” Tilson asks.
“Make it something easy, if you like. Have her go back fifteen minutes and interrupt the meeting.”
“No,” I say. “I was in the room then, and I won’t interact directly with myself. It sets up this feedback loop in your brain. I’ve seen what it did to my aunt, so I avoid it. And it might not be easy on the rest of you, either. It messes with your head.”
“What do you mean?” Tilson asks.
“In my experience, when people without the CHRONOS gene see something that’s . . . inconsistent . . . their head hurts. They feel queasy for several minutes. Trey thinks it’s like motion sickness. The brain can’t process the discordant images or memories, so it takes it out on your stomach.”
Ellicott gives me a patronizing smile. “I think we can handle a little discomfort, Miss Keller.”
“Yeah, well for you it might just be one little memory. But the fact that you saw me earlier will change little things about the conversation we’ve been having. You won’t remember that. I will.” I glance at the mug in front of her. “What time were you at Dean & DeLuca?”
“Around eight-ten,” she says warily.
“On M Street?”
“Yes. Why?”
I take my phone from my pocket, switch to the camera app, and snap her picture. Then I pull out my CHRONOS key and jump.
GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY
