by Rysa Walker
There’s a short silence, and then Ben says, “We have to assume that she did, based on the evidence we have. It’s possible that she just got . . . lucky.”
I stare at him and then at Julia.
“It’s also possible,” Tilson adds, “that she was injured, possibly even seriously, but received medical care.”
“And what do you think my chances are of completing this mission if I’m injured-possibly-even-seriously?”
Julia shakes her head. “That won’t happen. You’ll be airborne. You’ll have about twenty seconds of lift, giving you time to lower yourself to the ground safely.”
“Airborne? What the . . .”
Tilson and Bensen exchange an uneasy glance.
Max also looks a bit hesitant, but Julia is staring at him, so he nods. “It’s a rocket belt.”
I scan the faces at the table, not at all encouraged by what I’m seeing. Charlayne is the only one who seems enthusiastic, but this doesn’t surprise me. We once went to a carnival together where they had this ride called Zero-G, shaped like a giant, hollow doughnut where everyone lines up against the cushions along the edges. Daredevil Charlayne whooped and wriggled her bottom upward so that her legs dangled several feet above where the floor should have been. Not me. I had to close my eyes to block out the whirling lights and fragmented images. Even with my eyes closed, the corn dog and funnel cake I’d eaten were threatening to jump ship by the time the ride ended.
“You’re kidding,” I say. Because I’m really kind of hoping they are kidding.
“No,” Charlayne says. “It’s awesome. This guy down in Mexico makes them. Max looked like Buzz Lightyear when he tested it. Well, minus the wings, but still . . .”
Bensen’s mouth tightens a bit, but I’m not sure if it’s because Charlayne mentioned Max or because he doubts the merits of the solution. “They’re jet packs, really. A little hard to manage at first. Charlayne’s gone up three times now.” He shoots her a look. “She landed really hard the first time, although she seems to have forgotten that. So did Max. We’ll need to work with you a bit out at Tilson’s place.”
“Have you tried using it at the same time as a key, Max? In the middle of a time jump?”
“No,” he admits. “Not yet. We thought there’d be more time to iron out the wrinkles.”
“We’re working on a way to free up your hands for the key,” Tilson says. “You currently need both hands to operate the jet pack.”
“But those are just technicalities, right?” Julia asks, looking around at the others. “You told me you had people working on it.”
“And I do,” Tilson says, a bit defensively. “But as Max noted, the schedule was accelerated. More to the point, your insistence that we keep the time travel component secret, not to mention the entire Culling thing, doesn’t make it easy. I can find scientists who oppose the Cyrists, but it’s hard to explain why tweaking a jet pack is a critical element in fighting them.”
“I’m not opposed to learning how to operate this thing as a fallback option,” I say, “but getting me into what’s left of CHRONOS HQ without breaking my neck isn’t enough. We have no idea how long Prudence was there. How she got the keys. How or even when she gets back to Saul. I don’t think I’ll have much luck following her around for days on end, especially when the location will be . . . foreign to me.”
“Which is why you need to—” Julia begins.
“Yes. I know. Read the background file thoroughly. And I will. But unless I missed a category in my admittedly brief scan, there’s nothing about what happens to Pru when she gets there. My cover won’t hold for long, no matter how many times I read your file.” I take a deep breath, because I don’t really like what I’m about to say. “The obvious solution, the only one with any real chance of working, is to find Prudence in the wreckage and keep her from getting the keys. From getting to Saul. I bring her home before this begins. She used the key to get there accidentally. I’ll show her how to use it to come home.”
“And you’ll change the entire timeline, all of history, if you do that!” Julia says. “Not to mention erasing yourself in the process, along with Max and myself.”
“I know. I don’t particularly like the erasing-me part. I’m guessing you don’t care for the me-erasing-you part, either, but if that’s the price for stopping the Culling and erasing Cyrist International, then . . .”
Julia’s eyes widen. “Why do you assume those two goals are linked? Stop the Culling, yes. But I have no intention of erasing Cyrist International. None of us do.”
My jaw drops. I look around the table and see that Charlayne, Ben, and Max clearly agree with her. There’s hesitation in Tilson’s eyes, however, so I hold his gaze for a moment, hoping for a little support.
“I’m actually okay with that,” Tilson says reluctantly, giving Julia an apologetic look. “You’ve known my views on organized religion in general and the Cyrists in particular from the very beginning. I wouldn’t mind seeing the world without their influence.”
“But you’ve worked with us for the past twenty years, Harvey! I thought your prejudice on that point was long gone.”
Tilson bristles and looks like he’s about to give an angry retort—quite possibly the same one he gave at the barbecue about it not being prejudice if the belief is based on factual evidence. Instead, he stares down at the table for a few seconds and takes a deep breath before responding.
When he finally looks back up, his eyes pause on each of their faces in turn as he speaks. “There are many, many good people among the Cyrists, especially the New Cyrists. I hold those individuals, including the ones at this table, in the highest regard. I even freely admit that Cyrist International has done much good in the world. That’s the case for most other major organized religions, too, I would venture. But I don’t believe the good they’ve done outweighs the harm caused through the centuries. I’d like to leave it at that, because I don’t think I should have to justify my personal religious views or lack thereof to any of you. I happily work with any and all allies in stopping this Culling. I don’t have to embrace your religious views in order to do it.”
He adjusts the steel-rimmed glasses on his nose and turns to me. “As I was saying, Kate, I agreed to compromise on this point for the greater good. It took Julia’s parents a while to convince me, but I’m glad I listened. I think it’s for the best that we focus on the Culling and let history determine the fate of Cyricism.”
I turn to Charlayne. “You said ‘New Cyrist’ earlier. So did Tilson just now. Exactly what does that mean?”
“Well, we’re all Cyrist. But you have Orthodox Cyrists who’ve been around forever—back to the fifteenth century. The New Cyrists are an offshoot starting in the 1950s, so we’re really quite new. Orthodox Cyrists focus on both the Book of Prophesy and the Book of Cyrus. We focus more on the Book of Cyrus. There’s a lot of wisdom in there if you take the time to read it. We don’t require the tithe, although it’s still encouraged. And we’ve gotten rid of some of the silly stuff, like arranged marriages and no sex until you’re forty.”
“It’s twenty, not forty,” Julia corrects drily. “Hyperbole aside, however, Charlayne has given an accurate summary of the differences.”
“I’m kind of stuck between the two,” Charlayne says with a shy smile, seemingly pleased at Julia’s half compliment. “Dad is Orthodox. Mom is New Rite. I followed her, and so did two of my brothers. The other one goes to Dad’s church.”
Julia nods. “Officially Max and I are Orthodox Rite, although that’s only for appearances. Cyrist International accepted that growth might require a certain degree of compromise, so rather than exclude those who sought a more . . . relaxed . . . form of worship, they were allowed to continue as an adjunct group. They’ve provided a decent cover for the Fifth Column, especially once I was assigned as head of the Interfaith Alliance, which is—or perhaps I should say was—as much about coordinating activities between New and Orthodox as it was between the Cyrists and
Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, and so forth.”
“What about your parents?” I ask. “Did Delia and Abel want the Cyrists to continue?”
“They were at temple several times a week.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Because the answer doesn’t matter. They’re gone. And even if they were here, you’d be dealing with me. My goal at the end of this is as little change to the timeline as possible. Destroy the keys, ditch most of the miracles, which we all know to be false anyway. Ditch the Book of Prophecy. The Book of Cyrus stays. What we’ll end up with is closer to New Rite than Old, with no Culling. We all still exist, and it’s far more likely that we’ll recognize the world we live in.”
“But the Book of Cy—” I’m planning to say that the Book of Cyrus is as bogus as the Book of Prophecy. It’s a mostly plagiarized volume of platitudes cobbled together from every religious text and self-help book on the planet, and it shouldn’t exist at all.
But Tilson’s expression is practically yelling for me to back away from that comment, so I change subjects. “Fine. If I’m not going to stop Prudence from joining Saul, then we need to know more about what happens to her when she lands in 2305 before we make this jump.”
Max snorts. “And how do you plan to find that out? Just stroll up to her and ask?”
“Maybe.” My voice sounds as hesitant as I feel because there are so many ways this could go wrong. “It might work if I can find the younger Pru, before they turned her mind to mush. Kiernan says there was a period when she rebelled, when she hated Saul. If I can talk to her then, before—”
“Based on what I’ve seen and heard,” Julia says, “she’s hated Saul most of her life. But as I told you before, any information you get from Kiernan Dunne is suspect. I’d have said the same thing before my son died, no matter what my mother believed. You ignored my warning about London, but you need to take my advice about Kiernan seriously. Otherwise you’ll put our entire plan in jeopardy.”
“What about Houdini’s key? Kiernan and I were working together on that.”
“Do you even know for certain Houdini has a key?”
I decide it might be a bad idea to admit I’ve now seen that key, since it sort of confirms that I’ve also seen Kiernan. I don’t want to open that can of worms right now.
“Other-Kate, the me in the previous timeline? She was certain.”
“Focus on getting the keys from CHRONOS HQ. Once we destroy those, I think there’s a better than even chance that Houdini will have no key and no career. We’ll be saying ‘Houdini who?’” Julia is clearly pleased with her lame joke, and glances around the table to make sure it was properly appreciated.
Charlayne and Max both give a silent chuckle. Ben even gives a little lip twitch. Tilson and I are apparently the only people in the room who aren’t total suck-ups.
But I feel oddly protective of Houdini, who isn’t here to shield his reputation from this new group of challengers. “He had a CHRONOS key, but I’m not convinced he needed it. Houdini had a career before the time shifts. Before Cyrist International even existed.”
That wipes the smirk from Julia’s face. “How exactly would you know that?”
“I read it in one of Katherine’s books. A book that’s been under a CHRONOS key.”
Julia’s eyes narrow. “I wasn’t aware that Katherine was such an avid librarian. What’s the point in keeping track of timelines so radically different from our own?”
“It’s . . . history,” I say.
“Not anymore. And either way, you won’t be solving the mystery of whether or not Houdini has a key right now. We have bigger fish to fry.”
Truthfully, I probably will wait and finish up with Houdini once everything else is resolved. But I can’t shake the feeling that his key is important.
I flash Julia a one-second smile that she seems to accept as agreement. I’d rather avoid making more promises that I may or may not keep.
BOGART, GEORGIA
September 15, 1911, 11:45 p.m.
The moment I enter this set of coordinates into the key, the significance of the date hits me. When Julia was thinking of dates special to Saul that he might use for the Culling, she forgot a very important one—September 15th, the anniversary of his successful test run at Six Bridges.
Kiernan’s cabin is dark when I blink in and totally quiet aside from the crickets, or maybe they’re frogs, engaged in a raucous chorus outside. The sound reminds me of the little machine my mom uses when she has trouble sleeping. I guess this is nature’s version of white noise.
The meeting at Fifth Column headquarters ended over an hour ago, but I had to jump forward to meet Julia later in the day so she could give me the blood collection kit I’m holding. It apparently isn’t something you can pick up off the shelf at the local CVS, which meant Julia had to contact some doctor she knows.
Fortunately, the kit has little wings on the needle that make it easier to hold than the ones I’ve seen previously. Even so, I didn’t want to show up in the middle of the night and start jabbing holes into a girl who’s just been traumatized without some sort of practice. I was going to poke my own arm, but Julia thought that was a bad idea and offered Max as a pincushion.
If Max didn’t hate me before, he definitely does now. Once I finally punctured the vein and drew a sample, he stormed out. While I’d have preferred to practice a few more times, his arms already sported four Band-Aids, and one glance at his face told me not to push my luck.
Before jumping in at Kiernan’s, I scanned the key to find a time when they were both sleeping. Martha sat huddled in a sad little ball on the couch for most of the evening, dressed in the odd split-skirt bicycling costume I wore the first time we visited her village. Kiernan tried to get her to eat something and did his best to comfort her, but comfort doesn’t come easily to a fifteen-year-old who’s just witnessed the murder of her entire family and narrowly avoided being killed herself. At one point, Martha broke down. Kiernan held her head against his shoulder, just patting her back and looking helpless.
He finally convinced her to eat a sandwich and drink a small glass of something. I couldn’t read the label, but I’m pretty sure it was alcoholic, because Kiernan tossed back an even bigger glass himself once Martha was settled in the guest room. Then, a little over an hour ago, he went upstairs to the loft where he usually sleeps.
I hate to wake them. Sleep can’t have come easily. The first time I closed my eyes after our trip to Six Bridges, my mind flashed a rapid-fire montage of images—the bodies in the pews, Saul dragging Martha through the door with that sick blissful smile on his face. Even though I was exhausted, it took ages to fall asleep.
But waking them can’t be helped, so I grab the bottle from the table as soon as I jump in to the cabin. It’s whiskey—Old Grand-Dad, to be precise—and there’s a good two-thirds of it left. I tuck it under my arm and tiptoe to the ladder, using the glow of the CHRONOS key to light my way so that I can climb to the loft. Kiernan is sprawled across the bed on his stomach, shirtless, the sheets wrapped around him in a tangle. His left arm is unmarked, the nasty scar still somewhere in his future. As much as I’m tempted to warn him, Julia emphasized that I can’t do anything to change the path he’s on because I don’t know how that might impact either of us or the Fifth Column.
In fact, Julia didn’t want me talking to him at all. If she had her way, I’d be sneaking into Martha’s room like a vampire and stealing her blood, with Kiernan none the wiser. But I know he’s got a gun under his mattress. He might shoot first and ask questions later if he saw someone prowling around the cabin, especially if Martha screamed. And if anyone knows when and where I can find Prudence—the younger, saner version—it’s Kiernan.
I kneel down beside the bed and nudge his shoulder. “Kiernan, it’s Kate.”
“Mmm.” He smiles, his eyes still closed, and his arm circles my waist, pulling me toward him. “Kate. Missed you.”
“No, Kiernan.” I pull
his arm away—gently, but it’s enough that he opens his eyes. “I need to talk to you.”
He pushes himself up onto his elbows, huffing out a breath that would’ve confirmed my guess about the whiskey even if I hadn’t found the bottle. After the day he’s had, I don’t blame him.
“This couldn’t wait ’til morning?” He doesn’t sound angry, though, and he gives me a slightly groggy version of his usual grin. It stirs up the memory of him sitting in the chair at Eastbourne last night, looking out at the ocean. His tiny, perfunctory smile when he finally turned to greet me.
My expression must change with the memory, because Kiernan frowns. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. I just . . . I have to get a blood sample from Martha. They need it . . . for the vaccine. Oh, and the photo from the newspaper, so they can see the effects.”
“You’ve found someone already?”
“Yes,” I say, deciding to steer clear of the details. “The sample needs to be taken within forty-eight hours, and I’m not sure when Saul gave it to her.”
“I wish you’d come before Martha fell asleep.” Kiernan reaches under the bed as he’s talking and pulls out the shoe box. The article with the photo is on top. “She’s really torn up about this, and now she’ll have to—” He starts to swing his legs over the side of the bed, but I hold him back.
“I’ll get the sample in a minute, but you should stay in bed. I came when you were asleep because I have to ask some questions.”
Realization dawns in his eyes. “Oh. You’re from . . . later.”
“Yes. The less you remember about me being here, the better. For both of us.” I hold up the bottle of Old Grand-Dad and hand it to him. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too. I’m gonna have a wicked headache in the morning.” He removes the stopper and chugs from the bottle. A shudder runs through him, and then he asks, “What do you need to know?”
