Find Me Where the Water Ends (So Close to You)

by Rachel Carter

  The lights around us dim, then brighten, then dim again, and the room is almost dark now, with the streetlights outside the window glowing yellow against the glass. “Solar power.” Twenty-two opens the contact case and squints down at the see-through lenses. “You’d think they’d have perfected it before they made the whole country switch over.”

  “It only flickers at night sometimes,” Tim says. “Besides, oil couldn’t last forever. Especially not after the waters rose.”

  Climate change had started in my time, with a growing number of floods and hurricanes and tornadoes, until there was one major natural disaster a year, then five, then ten. By the 2020s it was bordering on apocalyptic, with whole towns washed away by floods, and thousands dying in the storms and the aftermath. In the beginning people were rebuilding the cities and towns, but when the waters rose permanently it became impossible. It took almost twenty years for the weather to stabilize, but by then the damage was done—the oceans had risen by several inches, and cities built near the coasts or on swamps, like Washington, DC, were underwater. The government banned carbon dioxide emissions and shifted to solar energy. And now we are standing in New Washington, DC, the reconstructed capital of the country, several miles inland.

  I had seen the new city, gleaming with glass and metal, when I was brought here from Montauk and delivered to the hotel, but it still feels unreal to me, like a hologram projected out into the sky.

  Twenty-two shrugs, dismissing Tim, dismissing the whole idea of global warming, and I wonder how many times she has seen it happen, how many ways the world has crumbled for her, before being pieced back together as she jumps through time again and again.

  “You two should leave,” Wes says to them. “Twenty-two, you’re in the room next door; we’ll meet in the hall in ten minutes. Thirty-one, you need to report for duty in the kitchens.”

  “Got it.” Tim looks over at me and smiles slightly. “Good luck.”

  “You too,” I whisper, aware of Wes watching us both.

  Twenty-two doesn’t say a word, but her brown eyes linger on Wes until the moment she closes the door behind her.

  When they are gone I turn around and place the contact case on the bed.

  “Lydia.” I can feel Wes standing right behind me, though I never heard him cross the room. I know that if I move at all we will be touching, and I stay rigid, my back slightly bent toward the bed.

  “Don’t put them in yet,” he says.

  “We don’t have time for this.”

  “I need to explain.”

  “I . . .”

  As I hesitate, his hand reaches out and curls around my wrist. The front of his arm is pressed to the back of mine, and I feel the soft material of his black jacket against my bare skin. I stay perfectly still. For months I obsessed over that moment I’d seen between the future versions of us, wondering what it meant, why I would forgive him for pretending to love me in order to fulfill his mission. I waited for him to find me, to explain. But time kept passing, a slow trickle, until I began to lose hope. And Wes still didn’t come. I thought I felt him sometimes, watching me train, standing in the back of the room during my history lessons. But when I turned to look for him, he was never there. I learned to stop looking. I learned to rely only on myself, realizing it was the only way I would survive as a recruit.

  But that was easy enough to feel when I was lying by myself on a hard mattress, staring up at the underside of a white bunk, the facility’s fluorescent lights bright even in the dead of night. Now, with Wes so close, his large fingers curved around the delicate bones of my wrist, I feel that resolve start to waver. I want to know what he has to say. I want to know why the future me forgave him, and how he made her smile like she forgot, if only for a moment, that she had become a slave to the Project.

  “I missed you,” he whispers, his deep voice so low, so soft, and I close my eyes. But then his fingers trace the scar that covers the pale skin on the underside of my wrist, and I pull away.

  “Don’t.”

  He steps back. I feel the heat of him leave, and I am only cold in its place. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Twenty-two will be waiting. I have to remember why I’m here.” I look down at my arm, my back still to Wes. In the shadowed light of the room you almost can’t see the slim, raised white ridge. But I know it’s there. I always know it’s there. Somewhere under my skin, tucked against the muscle and the white, ropey tendons, is their tracking chip. The way the Project follows my every move through their facility, through the outside world. It is the thing that marks me as theirs.

  Wes doesn’t say anything, and I ignore his presence as I carefully open the case, pull out a thin lens, and place it over my eye, repeating with the second one. I blink, and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust, for the tears to settle, for my vision to clear. It is my first time wearing an I-unit, though I have been practicing with ordinary contacts for weeks. It is against Montauk Project policy for inventions to be shared across eras, so although I know how an I-unit works in theory, I have never worn one in practice.

  Menu, I think, and a scrolling list appears before my eyes with words like Contacts, Calendar, Messages, Internet. I can see through the black lettering, though the world behind it is slightly fuzzier.

  Off, I think, and the menu disappears.

  I swing around the room, imagining that it will look different somehow, with this thing creating a veil over my eyes. But no, there is the wooden dresser, the gold picture frame against the wall, the TV, dark and quiet.

  My eyes settle on Wes. He is staring back at me, and I know he’s wearing his I-unit too. As soon as I focus on his face, faint red lines shoot out in front of my eyes, mapping the angles of his features, his head. It is not just scanning his image, but linking to a database that stores his online presence, including his social media sites, his work history, and pictures of him that have been posted on the web.

  A small profile appears. Because our aliases have a relationship, I have access to his entire I-unit profile, full of milestones, dates, and pictures of events we’ve both attended. Michael Gallo, it says, with a photo of Wes and a brief résumé. Engaged to Samantha Greenwood. I see the words on the bottom. And there is the history of us, or the fake us. Met in 2042, senior year in college. Traveled to England, France, Russia, and South Africa from 2043 to 2048. Engaged in Johannesburg June 15, 2048.

  Wes’s eyes are unfocused, and I wonder if he’s reading the same words I am. Not that it matters. This is a fake life, for a fake couple. Once I thought we would have that kind of future together, and I believed it enough that I left behind my family and friends to follow him into the past. But I was wrong, and even the memory of the future us embracing in that hallway is not enough to make me believe that we can ever start over again.

  Chapter 4

  Wes offers me his arm. I rest my hand on his jacket as we walk down the long hallway. To our right are framed portraits of men and women long dead; to our left is a balcony that looks out over a ballroom. In between the tall columns of the banister I see a flicker of light from the chandeliers, the swirl of a couple spinning on the dance floor.

  My heels clink against the marble, loud even above the swelling of the violins that seeps up from below. Wes is as quiet as he usually is. We haven’t spoken a word since we left the hotel room, not even when we went through security—metal detectors that scanned for everything from weapons to foreign chemicals. Luckily the poison, hidden in the bottom of a lipstick tube in my clutch, was undetectable. But not one of us is armed, and I cannot help feeling nervous as we reach the top of a large, gold staircase.

  The hallway was dark and narrow, but now the party is spread out in front of us: light and noise and people in a room the size of a football field. There are floor-to-ceiling windows, dozens of round tables at the far end, and a small orchestra set up next to the dance floor. Like the hotel room upstairs, it is decorated in an old-fashioned style, from gilded chandeliers to simple 1930s
fashions.

  “Are you ready?” Wes asks me softly.

  My body is stiff next to his and I force myself to relax. “Of course, darling.”

  He smiles at me, though it never reaches his eyes, and we start to descend the stairs. The guests are a collage of tuxedos and gowns, broken up only by the waiters who dart in and out, carrying silver trays heavy with champagne. The band ends one song, but it blends into the next, the classical notes rising and falling over the buzzing noise of hundreds of murmuring voices.

  There’s a rustling among the guests closest to the staircase, and a few people turn to watch us. A woman points at me, then whispers something to the man next to her.

  I glance up at the sharp line of Wes’s jaw. His expression is neutral, though his eyes are warm. It’s an act, I can’t forget that. Right now he is not Wes, he’s Michael. I try to put the same level of warmth into my own eyes. I am not a natural actor, not like Wes has proven himself to be, but I have no choice but to become Samantha Greenwood tonight. A bored socialite, perhaps tired of following her fiancé from country to country, with no real friends left in the United States.

  “Why are people staring?” I ask him quietly. “Do I have something on my dress?”

  “They’re staring because you’re beautiful,” he answers. “Don’t be nervous, Love.”

  Love. Wes has never called me that before. I dig my fingernails into the silk of the clutch I’m carrying in my opposite hand. I know he is being Michael right now, but it is his voice, his lips saying the words. I look away before the confusion can show on my face, before I fall into his arms because I know, at least as Samantha, that he’ll catch me.

  I hear the tap of another pair of heels on marble and turn to see Twenty-two coming down the stairs behind us. She is transformed, flashing white teeth as she smiles, her eyes wide and bright. “Bea seems like she’s having fun.”

  “Your cousin is a lovely girl.” Wes sounds as though he is holding in laughter, delighted by her every move. This time Twenty-two’s smile is for him, even though he has his back to her, and I wonder where the act stops and the real person starts.

  We finally reach the bottom of the stairs. Wes lets go of my arm and puts his hand on my exposed back, moving me into the heart of the crowd. There are people on all sides, and I am jostled closer to him. He puts one arm out in front of us, angling our bodies in to each other so that we are like a tiny ship moving through rough waves. I brush against men in black suits, women in simple silk gowns like mine, but all I feel is the pressure of Wes’s fingers on my skin.

  “Do you want champagne?”

  He has to lean down to whisper the words, and his breath stirs the hair near my neck. I nod. He stops a passing waiter and picks up a flute, the carved crystal catching the light that spills from the chandeliers overhead.

  “Mr. Gallo!”

  A short, dark-haired man pushes through the crowd to stand in front of us. Who, I think, and my I-unit flickers in front of my eyes, scanning the man’s face and pulling up his profile. Lee Mal-Chin, it reads at the top. It is a limited profile, as we are not friends on any social media sites, but I see a link to a site describing his job and his business associates, and a public folder of pictures from events he has attended.

  I do not bother following the link to his job; I have already studied this man’s face in my pre-mission training. He’s a business associate of Michael’s from South Korea, though they’ve never met before tonight. I turn and see hundreds of familiar faces in the crowd—senators and socialites, businessmen and -women who make up New Washington’s elite. I have seen file after file on them, not needing to rely on my I-unit the way most people do in this time period.

  I-units are issued by the government in 2049, available for all citizens and not monopolized by one company. They’re encouraged and free, but as a result, the government has access to almost all your personal information—where you go, who you see. Some groups complain about the lack of privacy, but no one can deny that with the countless witnesses and eyes on the streets it has cut down on a large amount of crime. Even if you choose not to use an I-unit, other wearers can still scan your movements. Unless you have resources like the Project does, it makes hiding your identity almost impossible—especially at an event like tonight’s, where they won’t let you in without an I-unit so that security can monitor every movement and every conversation in order to keep the president safe.

  Luckily, Michael Gallo is as real as anyone in this room, representing a France-based international shipping company where he’s “worked” for almost a year. The company is fake, but the Project has spent months establishing its identity overseas, setting up business accounts, and using simulation technology to mimic Wes’s voice on conference calls. In order to create our I-units, the Project hacked into the American I-unit database and planted our fake identities, including birth certificates, an internet presence, and forged family connections. Only Tim’s alias, Paul Sherman, was a real person who the Project disposed of, and changed his photos to match Tim. Another casualty for the greater good.

  “I heard a rumor you would be here tonight. My wife and I flew all the way from Seoul just to see if it was true.” Mr. Lee’s voice is heavily accented, but his English is flawless. He holds out his arm to a brunette woman who appears to be in her mid-thirties. The loose, casual way she wears her hair reminds me of Hannah, who always dressed like a flower child. She would have fit in here, in 2049, with the simple silhouettes and the emphasis on sustainability. And though I’m glad that she never got caught up with the Project, a small part of me wishes I had her here now.

  I blink away the memory and Mr. Lee’s wife blinks, too. She is still, her eyes scanning me, then Wes, as she uses her I-unit to read the situation.

  “It’s a pleasure,” she finally says, holding out her hand to Wes. “Mal-Chin speaks of you often.”

  Her voice is soft, with a slight English accent, and though I’ve already memorized her file, I scan her with my own I-unit while Wes takes her hand. Sophia Lee, maiden name Jones. Born in London, England, February 1, 1995.

  1995. The year I was born. In another lifetime she and I would have been contemporaries, experiencing the last thirty years at the same time. But here we are in 2049, and I am just barely eighteen, while she is fifty-four.

  Not that she looks it. Stem cell technology has advanced significantly, and even ordinary people have access to what it can do. People take it like a vitamin in order to stretch their life spans, and boost their metabolism, with the added benefit of making them appear younger by decades. It is why Sardosky is not considered too old to be president, though he’s pushing eighty-five.

  “I trust your flight wasn’t too long.” Wes is smiling at Mr. Lee in a wide, pleasant way I’ve never seen before, and I sip my champagne to cover my reaction. The bubbles fizz all the way down my throat.

  “Ahh, these new airplanes.” Mr. Lee waves his hand in the air dismissively. His other arm curls around his wife, a mirror of the way Wes is holding me, and I know it is deliberate. The world may have changed significantly by 2049, but in this moment, Sophia Lee and I are only arm candy to these men. “Even run with solar power, they’re so fast. It only took a few hours to get here. What will they think of next?”

  “I hear they’re working on teleportation,” I say, and his eyes shift to me, taking in my dress and working his way up. When he gets to my hair he jerks his head back as though surprised.

  Wes catches his reaction and his arm tightens around my waist. “We really should be going.” He is already stepping away from the couple, smiling and nodding. “We’ll talk later.”

  “I want to hear what you think about that report I sent last Thursday,” Mr. Lee yells after us and Wes lifts a hand up over his shoulder before we are swallowed by the crowd again.

  I want to ask if he knows what Mr. Lee’s reaction was about, but I know I can’t. Wes must sense it though; his hand moves up my back and into my hair, the dark-red strands tangli
ng around his fingers.

  He suddenly stops, his hand twisting now, and I have no choice but to look up at him. With my head tilted back, the chandeliers above seem overly bright, like staring straight into the sun. But it is only an illusion; the room is as dim as candlelight, and Wes’s face is framed in shadows.

  “Mr. Lee seemed nice.” I cannot think of anything else to say.

  Wes smiles, and it is more like him this time, half of a lip tilt, his expression soft. “He’s an ass. But he runs a good business.”

  I feel my lips crack too, the unused muscles straining upward, and Wes’s eyes drop to my mouth. I take a deep breath, my chest expanding under the low bodice of my gown. We are so close I know he feels it too, and then he pulls me in toward his body, his head dips, and his lashes lower to half-mast. He is leaning in, leaning down, and I do not pull away. Why shouldn’t I let him kiss me? We are not Seventeen and Eleven right now, not even Lydia and Wes, but Samantha and Michael, two people who think nothing of holding each other in a crowded room. But then someone bumps into me from behind and I fall forward against Wes, one hand coming up and landing on his chest. I feel his muscles flex beneath the crisp white shirt of his tux and I push back, looking down and tucking my hair behind my ear.

  Wes clears his throat and carefully pulls his arm away, until we are standing close, but not touching.

  “Where did Bea go?” His voice is even but forced. He is trying too hard to sound normal, unaffected.

  “I don’t know.” I turn around, grateful for the chance to avoid looking at him. The space is so filled with people that I have trouble seeing past those closest to us. Most of the guests are standing in the center of the room, waiting for the dinner and the speeches to start, but I spot the president seated at a table in the corner. Secret Service agents in black suits stand against the wall next to him, their arms crossed over their chests and their heads turning back and forth as they survey the crowd.