A Chronetic Memory (The Chronography Records Book 1)

by O'Hara, Kim K.

  “I could check tomorrow,” Dani offered.

  “If it’s there, it might be useful to see what it shows,” Kat suggested.

  “No,” Uncle Royce said. “It is there. I donated it myself. I remember now. The institute had just determined that metal objects made the best sources, and I thought about all the people that had walked past that gate, along that street. It’s a popular place to walk, on nice days, as scarce as helicar parking is down a little closer to the water.”

  Kat looked at him sharply. “You helped the institute?”

  “Well, I am on the board of directors, you know. More of a figurehead now, but back then, I was involved to a fair degree. I was eager to further the science, not the privacy invasions.” He patted her knee affectionately. “We didn’t know as much then as we do now.”

  “You’re on the board of directors?” This was news to Dani. The names of the board members were never published anywhere, as far as she knew. Wasn’t there something she was supposed to find out about the board of directors? She tried to remember, but her brain was still fuzzy, and she suddenly realized she was really tired. She yawned.

  “Yes, I am. I try to influence them in right directions. I’ve been working on the privacy issues from the inside,” he said, “with little success, unfortunately. I still have some irons in the fire, however.”

  Dani yawned again. This time Kat noticed. “It’s after eleven! I didn’t realize it was getting so late. Dani, do you think you can get home by yourself, or do you want one of us to go with you?”

  “I’ll take her home,” said Uncle Royce. “I have my helicar outside. Where do you live, Dani?”

  She told him. She barely remembered getting in the helicar, arriving at her apartment, or stumbling from the elevator to her door. Just as she was dropping off, she remembered why she wanted to know about the board of directors.

  “I never told them about the forty-three point six percent,” she mumbled to herself as she fell asleep.

  RIACH TUBE STOP, Alki Beach, Seattle, WA. 0740, Thursday, June 8, 2215.

  When she got out of the tube car at the RIACH stop, Dani was surprised to see Anders getting out also, two cars down. She waited for him by the clock tower. She was still trying to wrap her brain around this two-different-realities concept. Had Anders done all that research in this reality, or was that the other reality? Or both?

  That question led her to wonder about when she had made the actual switch. Last night, they had pretty well narrowed down the point of the reality stream divergence to that moment in 2206, but they hadn’t talked at all about when her perceptions had changed. She reassured herself by remembering that she had looked over the data again on her way in this morning, and it had to have come from somewhere.

  “I thought we weren’t going to meet till lunch.” Anders’s tone was teasing, lighthearted.

  Dani was preoccupied with marveling at how easily she had adapted to thinking in two realities, but she tried to match his mood.

  “We do both take the blue line,” she countered. “It’s bound to happen sometime or another.”

  “We’ve probably passed each other a hundred times and not realized it.”

  “That’s probably true. Maybe we should make it a regular thing.” She smiled.

  She decided to assume, for the time being, that either the switch came before her after-work meeting with Anders the day before, or the versions of Anders from both realities were similarly motivated. Either way, she felt she could trust him to still want to help.

  He nodded happily. “So I’ll be looking for hidden names of investors and contributors today, in my free moments. Anything else?”

  As they set off walking for the security gate, she pondered. That sounded like he had the same memories she did of their last meeting. She took her cue from that, and mentally confirmed her assumption that the switch occurred before 5 P.M. It should be safe to share her questions with him. “Now that you mention it, yes. I was wondering last night where the extra money goes. Is it needed for operational expenses and salaries? Or is it being stored up somewhere?”

  “Good question. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  “Also, do you know who sits on the board of directors for the institute? I don’t remember anything ever being published. Nothing in the New Employee Handbook, anyway.” She realized she felt more comfortable trusting the new Anders than she did trusting the new Kat and Marak. Maybe it was because she realized that at least half her shared experiences with him had come from this new reality. Whereas, with Kat and Marak, there were six months of potential differences. Or even more. In this reality, she might have met them earlier.

  “Haven’t run across that, but I’ll look.” He glanced up to gauge the distance to the security gate. “Shall we change the subject, just in case?”

  “Yeah. We probably shouldn’t talk about books either, right?” She teased, lowering her voice.

  He made a face and muttered, “I’d prefer not, if it’s the same to you.” Then he said, more loudly, “So, what do you think the special of the day will be today, in the cafeteria?”

  “I hardly ever eat there, you know. I don’t suppose you’d care to make a recommendation? You could give me a gourmet review of the best of things and the worst of things.”

  “Sounds like the beginning of a novel I once read,” he began. She could guess where he had read it. At the same moment, they looked at each other, snickered, and made the tacit decision to avoid that risky topic one more time. There were those gorgeous blue eyes again. Dani had never realized breaking the rules could be so fun. Or that clandestine behavior could be so addicting.

  The irisscan confirmed their identities, and they walked together the remaining distance to the main entry in companionable silence, conscious of a blooming friendship. Dani toyed with the idea that it could be something more. The entry doors swung open and although the viewwall automatically split to show them each their daily schedules, neither of them paid it any attention.

  RIACH LABS, Alki Beach, Seattle. 0800, Thursday, June 8, 2215.

  It wasn’t until she reached the chronolab that Dani realized she hadn’t seen the protesters outside. In the old reality, Kat’s schedule was like clockwork; rain or shine, she was there. One more indication that she didn’t really know this new Kat, no matter how much she seemed the same. She would be cautious until she knew more.

  She skimmed her schedule. More time decay checks. She filled her tray with the first batch, then, on impulse, went to see if she could find the padlock. She remembered its number, 097113, so it would be a simple matter to check. Except she was automatically assuming its number hadn’t changed, which, she admitted, it very well could have. But when she got to Case 097, there it was, and its number was the same. Feeling pleasantly furtive, she added it to the tray. Uncle Royce hadn’t thought it necessary, but she was curious to see if the scan of the object would be the same as what she remembered from the other reality. She could easily sneak in one extra scan among the checks.

  She worked quickly, until she was sufficiently ahead of schedule to justify an extra scan. Five minutes, if she remembered correctly. September 17, 2206, at 1144 and some seconds. She adjusted the settings for 114410, then started the scan. Immediately, she saw the garden she remembered, and now she noticed the patio that Marak had mentioned. Soon she should see Marak’s hand shaking the padlock. But instead, right at 114417, the sensory images failed and the object blanked. She betrayed her surprise with a quick intake of breath. Time decay? That would mean that someone had made—and played—a recording of her scan. Well, unless it was an occurrence of random time decay.

  Something clicked in her brain. What if the conclusions of her college paper weren’t wrong after all? What if time decay was always linked to playing a converted recording? Her mind raced. That would mean that there were undocumented conversions being done, and undocumented holograms being used. And most likely, she noted to herself, they were being used for undocumented reaso
ns.

  And there was the privacy issue popping up again. Unbidden, an image of Joph, with his hasty scribbles and his astute analysis, sprang to mind. “If you’re not looking for a particular person’s secrets and you’d be satisfied with anybody’s, the odds favor finding something worth some money out of a good proportion of the objects,” his voice echoed in her head.

  She wondered, with a growing conviction that she knew the answer already, if that proportion would match the rate of unexpected time decay. She went through the progression in her mind, to see if she could find any holes. Items yielded secrets. Secrets invited blackmail. Blackmail required proof. Producing proof caused time decay as an unfortunate side effect. Every time? So, maybe not so unfortunate, from her point of view. Time decay left a trail. Was there any way those trails could be linked to the anonymous contributions?

  She began to look forward to lunch.

  17

  Suspicion

  HUNTER’S OFFICE. 1205, Thursday, June 8, 2215.

  Finally, his secretary had left for lunch. Hunter didn’t know what had kept the man today. He switched the monitoring equipment from his outer office to scan the corridors and usual gathering places. The freedom of thought he took pains to encourage was a ruse, of course, for the lower-level employees of the institute. Those at the upper level were carefully directed away from any potential for scientific breakthrough toward finding more efficient ways of carrying out what had evolved as the institute’s main business. Nevertheless, the little people out there were unconstrained in conversation, and he had personally overheard as wide a range of topics as he might have found at a public gathering place. They were fools if they believed their calls on the nexus weren’t monitored, if they believed the security cams were only there for their protection.

  He had made the illusion of freedom into a useful tool. He frequently found fodder for his fund-raising activities. He’d learned to spot the telltale signs of secretive discussions. As he scanned, he made mental notes of the couple slipping off the main corridor to kiss in an underused hallway. Probably nothing, but perhaps an indication of an affair. He twitched a finger and an accommodating ID device scanned all identifiable features, identified the potential contributors, recorded their names, and awaited his next command. He didn’t even have to see their faces. That would come later.

  This was one of the most enjoyable portions of his job. Aside from acquiring large amounts of cash, of course.

  There, in the courtyard, a young woman with her head bent over, covering her mouth. She may have thought bystanders wouldn’t notice that she was speaking to someone on her connexion, but scanner knew. That was one of the benefits of a private nexus. She was saying something that she didn’t want bystanders to hear. Perhaps domestic trouble? Was she making arrangements for purchasing something illegal? No matter. The device identified her and recorded her name as well, tagging and recording the conversation for later listening.

  His system was efficient. The scans he made personally weren’t really necessary. Hundreds of automatic devices noted anything out of the ordinary: routines abruptly changed, criminal charges inexplicably dismissed, large amounts of money exchanging hands. If a name appeared more than a few times from any of his sources, he’d be alerted. At first, he had kept it local; Seattle held its share of lawbreakers, and it was easier to obtain the objects that persuaded their ardent support. But he had found even more opportunities when he set up monitoring systems in New York and London.

  He panned his monitors over the cafeteria crowd. Only about half the employees ate there; others chose the food court or coffee shops scattered around the institute grounds. Still others went off-campus, but he wasn’t concerned about those.

  What was this? A young couple with their heads together, whispering. He could barely see them at this distance, but it appeared that the young man had covered something up with a napkin. He kept glancing over his shoulder. He flicked his finger, and the ID device whirred.

  This could be a fruitful day, indeed.

  18

  Realization

  RIACH CAFETERIA, Alki Beach, Seattle, WA. 1230, Thursday, June 8, 2215.

  Anders dimmed his worktablet screen. “I have dates, but no names. But if your idea is correct, we could try to find a way to figure out when the recordings are being converted. If the dates are a bit before the dates the contributions came in, that would show us something definite.” Anders scratched his head.

  Dani nodded slowly. “But how would it help? When there’s time decay, I can’t look at what was recorded any more.”

  “Could you look at the part right before or after the blank part?”

  Dani opened her eyes wide. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that! I’m doing time decay checks all day today. If I find one, I’ll see if I can determine who is involved.”

  She could think of one object right now: the padlock. But she hadn’t told Anders about the two realities, and she hadn’t mentioned Kat or Marak. She repeatedly had to remind herself that she had only met him yesterday. She’d check out the padlock, for sure, but she wouldn’t tell him about its significance. Not yet.

  In her original reality, she was working on assignments from Kat and Marak, and Anders was a means to complete them. In this reality, she found herself teaming up with Anders and doubting Kat. And then there was Kat’s Uncle Royce. Which reminded her of the other question she was going to ask.

  “Did you find out anything about the board of directors?”

  “Not a lot. I found out we have offices reserved for their use when they come in for the day. Not anywhere close to me or to you, though. It would be hard to keep an eye on them to see who uses them.”

  “Is it strange that their names aren’t published anywhere?” Dani asked.

  “Not necessarily, for a privately owned organization. If they were publicly owned, the stockholders would want to know all those details.”

  “Frustrating.”

  “Yeah. Well, I can poke around a bit more. You follow the time decay lead. That was a real breakthrough you got on that idea, by the way.”

  “Only if it’s true. It could be way off base.”

  “I’m betting it’s true,” he said. “And if it isn’t—well, this is the most fun I’ve had for months.”

  Dani smiled. She would think it was fun, too, if she knew Jored was safe and sound in his classroom, or at home with his mom and dad. But for now, the most she could manage was the smile.

  He winked at her and added, in the voice of some holostar that she couldn’t quite place, “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in forever, darlin’.” He put his hand over hers for just a second.

  Just a second. She was surprised at how good that felt.

  She cleared her throat. “Time for work.”

  “Well, you’re right!” He stood. “Tube station?”

  “See you there.”

  RIACH LABS, Alki Beach, Seattle, WA. 1300, Thursday, June 8, 2215.

  Dani went to fill her tray in the object library. More time decay checks, but now she was on the hunt for something that could give them some answers. For the second time that day, she stopped by Case 097 to borrow the padlock. She was beginning to know every rust spot and groove.

  She started on her list. She’d have to get a little ahead on her time schedule to be able to fit the padlock in, and she wanted to see if there were any blank objects so she could have some news for Anders. Plus, she would need a good ten minutes to explore the before-and-after parts of the padlock scan.

  While she worked, she went down her mental list of questions she would need to follow up on. First, how did Kat and Marak know Dr. Seebak? That was true in both realities. She remembered also that they had mentioned his son, in this new reality. She didn’t remember that he had ever been married. She considered that. He could have married after he withdrew from the scientific community. So that could also be true in both realities, but she wouldn’t know until she got back.

&n
bsp; Dani caught her breath. She hadn’t actually allowed herself to think about it, but she realized she had been counting, all along, on being able to put things back in place, get her Jored back. That was her real goal, not just figuring out what had happened. That goal was going to ultimately determine who she could ally herself with and who she couldn’t. It occurred to her that nobody in this reality might want their world dissolved, any more than she would hers. Actually, until she knew what caused the shift, she had no idea whether this world would dissolve or continue on, after the problem was fixed. And, she admitted honestly, she might not know even then.

  Was it just a few days ago that she’d been griping about how boring her job was? Her head spun with all these new questions. Not the least of which was whether she’d ever see Jored again, play chess with him, chase him down the hall to tickle him, give him a good night hug. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, and her eyes stung with impending tears.

  She hadn’t allowed herself to think about him. She hadn’t allowed herself to cry. But this was real grief, just as real as if he’d been killed or kidnapped. Actually, it felt more like a kidnapping. She had to believe that he was out there somewhere, and she didn’t know if he was cold or hungry or scared. His parents should be with him, to take care of him, but they were here, and not at all inclined to go look for him. If only they could see him! They’d love him and want him back too.

  She remembered the demonstration at Alki Elementary. She wished she had made a recording of Jored so she could show Kat and Marak a glimpse of their adorable, engaging, astonishing little boy. Dani loved him with all her heart, but she’d only known him six months. Kat and Marak had—well, in the other reality, they had—known him all his wonderful little life.

  Now the tears were flowing freely. She sat down and sobbed. Her schedule was forgotten. For now, she just needed to cry. The ache in her heart overwhelmed her, and she had no one, absolutely no one, to share it with. Who would understand this grief for a boy that, to them, had never existed?