by eden Hudson
“Carina!” I hammered on her door.
She didn’t answer, so I opened the door and barged in.
Her bed was empty.
For the space of several heartbeats, I stood there frozen, with the rictus of a grin stretched across my face. I could feel my pulse thudding in my gut. My stomach gurgled, sick and hungry at the same time.
Downstairs, the door to the pool wheezed open and shut.
“What are you yelling about?” Carina called.
I skipped half of the steps running down. When I made it to the kitchen, she was at the counter pouring herself a freshly percolated cup of 26, one of the rarest coffees known to “dirters”—the slur Cryst Riders use for those of us who prefer dry land. She was fully dressed, but her hair was damp, as if she’d gone for a swim earlier.
“What am I yelling about?” I yelled louder, throwing my hands up. “What am I yelling about? Do you even realize how big this is?”
“I don’t see how I can if you never tell me what ‘this’ is.”
“Good, then we’re all agreed that you need to shut up and stop interrupting me.” I grabbed a mug out of the sanitizer cabinet and held it out to her.
She glanced down at it, then turned that deadpan stare at me.
I shook the cup.
She sighed, then grabbed the percolator and sloshed some into my cup.
“Easy! That stuff costs more per drop than designing your genetic upgrades cost your parents,” I said. When my cup was full and the percolator had been carefully returned to the stove, I pulled out one of the barstools and sat down. “First Earthers didn’t call it the Garden of Time at all, Carina. They called it the ‘Time Garden.’ That’s what I’m yelling about.”
I pulled up a page of the anthropology text I’d been skimming the night before and leaned over, stretching my arm across the counter so Carina could read my wristpiece screen. She gave it a cursory scan.
“Obviously, after I found that, I ran a new search on the ancient library for ‘Time Garden Caverns.’ Guess how many hits I got.”
She swallowed the sip of coffee she’d just taken. “No.”
“Guess or I’ll throw a steaming mug of the most expensive coffee on dry land at you.”
“Fifty billion.”
“Two hundred and nine!” I couldn’t sit down anymore. My legs wouldn’t hold still. I stood up and started pacing the kitchen. “So, I refined the search for location and information until I’d cut the reading down to forty-three texts that were absolute info-mines. Three of them were geological surveys, Carina! Geological! Surveys!” I shouted at the ceiling. “I was up all night mapping First Earth coordinates on modern maps and planning our expedition because I HAVE AN APPROXIMATE LOCATION FOR THE GARDEN OF TIME! YOU MAY BREAK OUT IN THUNDEROUS APPLAUSE NOW!”
Carina didn’t applaud. “Let me see the geological surveys.”
I squinted at her, remembering her cursory scan of the first text. “Do you even know how to read First Earth characters?”
“I know how to download a translator.” She started messing with her wristpiece.
“Oh, my aching back, Carina!” I shoved the barstool out of the way and leaned my elbows on the countertop while I sent the ancient geological surveys to her. “There! Happy?”
“Yes, thank you.”
I didn’t trust any automated translation app, no matter how accurate it claimed to be, so I went around to her side of the counter and read over her shoulder. She smelled faintly of pool chemicals.
“Did you go swimming?”
She turned her head just enough that her green eyes could cut to mine, but she didn’t move away from me. “I don’t get the chance to swim much at home.”
“The Guild doesn’t have a pool?” I asked as if I cared about their pathetic facilities. What I really cared about was the fact that Carina didn’t have a swimming suit, and there were no other clothes in the lake house. If she’d gone swimming this morning, then she’d done it naked. Knowing I was here. Knowing I might walk in at any second.
“Which one is it?” Carina asked, indicating her wristpiece.
“Survey 3130-210,” I said.
She scrolled through the Internals of the Slab, that translator app’s idea of a Table of Contents.
“There.” I pointed. “Review 3130 to 210. Jeesh, Carina, could you have picked a worse translator?”
“The one I usually use isn’t trustworthy anymore,” she said under her breath.
“Is that supposed to be some kind of pitiful jab at me?” I asked.
“Yes, Van Zandt, everything I say is a veiled reference to you.”
“You know, if you put as much effort into reading as you do sarcasm, we could have this showboat on the river already.”
She bucked the shoulder closest to me, bumping me in the chest. “Can I have a little space?”
“No, I have to translate for your jizzrag of a translator app.”
Garden of Time Grotto
Garden of Time Grotto is located in Rock Region within the O?%AR%?K Moorlands Area. Terrestrial features embrace—
I groaned. “Holy balls, Carina, shred this translator and let me read it out loud to you.”
She bucked her shoulder again to shove me off and kept reading.
“Grotto should say ‘Cavern,’” I corrected. “Garden of Time should be ‘Time Garden,’ Rock Region should say ‘Stone Parish,’ Moorlands area should say ‘Moorlands Region,’ terrestrial should be—”
“Not actually helpful,” Carina said, swatting at me with her non-wristpiece hand. Two of her fingernails grazed my lips.
I jerked away from her and licked the spot they’d touched. I blinked, then took a few steps away. I licked my lips again.
“It’s a cave full of formations that grew at a completely impossible rate, according to the First Earth texts,” I said. My voice had changed volume without my permission. I cleared my throat and spoke up. “The most notable formation, the Seraph—which according to legend guards the cave and its powers—was blamed for at least two large-scale massacres during First Earth times. That’s our immortal guardian.
“I’ll send you the excerpts from the texts that record people who’ve interacted with the cave aging completely out of sync with time. The point is Time Garden Caverns is our place. That’s where we need to be. We have to get in, get the water—oh yeah, the ancient native legends all agree that the waters in the cave are made of actual, literal Time, so I was right again. It’s the place where physical Time grows and is stored, and it’s protected by an immortal guardian.” I took a sip of coffee.
“A man with a more fragile ego might break into the Guild office of the Head Scribe who tried to discredit him, take a shit on that fishdick’s desk, and paint ‘I was right’ in huge brown letters on every surface, but I’m content just knowing that for the rest of eternity he’ll be referred to as Doubting Cuthbert, the Fishdick Who Didn’t Believe the Greatest Thief in History.”
“You never ask for much,” Carina said without looking up from her wristpiece. As she read through the poorly translated geological survey, she chewed her bottom lip in concentration.
I bit the inside of my cheek until the metallic taste of blood drowned out the remembered scratch of her fingernails.
Finally, she looked up at me. “These First Earth coordinates don’t look anything like our coordinates. How are you supposed to tell where in the Revived Earth they’re talking about?”
“Mainly by having a brain the size of a galaxy packed into one devilishly handsome skull,” I said. “First Earthers used a system of degrees instead of conic cross sections of the planet. It’s rudimentary, but once you get used to it, it’s possible to geolocate on a nav app to within a mile.”
Carina nodded slowly. “That actually is impressive, Van Zandt.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” I said. “Now, get your shoes on. We’ve got a cave full of Time to raid.”
***
The coordinates f
rom that ancient geological survey showed Time Garden Caverns as located seventeen miles inland on the southern polar ice cap, so the rest of our morning went to rounding up hiking and camping equipment rated for arctic climates, spelunking gear, biothermal underclothes, heat-retaining outer clothes, edible wilderness rations, explosives in case of excavation, and ten-packs of sterile inflatable bladders to carry our Time-water in. While Carina tried out a few different chain-driven swords to replace her knuckgun—which would freeze up and malfunction in subzero temperatures—I set our travel plans in motion.
I got us seats on the next flight out of the Airport at Emerald Lake with one connection in Taern International and a second at Giku International in Soam. From Giku, we would fly down to the Kalian Islands, hop an icebreaker to the southernmost dispatch station, and hike out onto the ice cap. Those last couple legs would be rough going, but thanks to the PCM, I didn’t have the luxury of waiting until the slightly less turbulent arctic summer so we could parachute into the target area.
Once we were properly supplied, I messaged my lake house’s cleaning service to let them know there was a night’s stay to clean up, then steamrolled Carina’s arguments about not letting me drive to the airport. Because she lost, she spent the ride pouting.
AEL was smaller than any of the international airports, mostly there for connections and commutes, but their garage did have one level for long-term parking. Pulling into it finally brought Carina out of her huff.
“You’re leaving your Culebra here?” she asked.
“I doubt they’ll let me bring it on the plane,” I said, leaning out the window to grab a ticket from the attendant.
“You yelled at me when I wanted you to leave your crotchrocket at the airport in Taern.”
At the mention of the ’Shan, an invisible hand reached out of my chest, grasping in the direction of the Crotalinae-certified mechanic’s shop where my baby currently resided. I grinned and put the Culebra back in gear.
“I didn’t yell at you,” I told her. “I pointed out the flaw with that plan—namely that the ’Shan is a priceless, custom work of art, and it would be stolen or parted out within a day if someone were stupid enough to leave it in an airport parking lot.”
I pulled into a spot near the center of the garage and shut the Culebra off.
But Carina wouldn’t leave it alone. “Culebra made sixty-eight of this model before being shut down for illegal street racing modifications back in ’87. The last one at auction went for more than the cost of an island in the Doldrums. If leaving this in an airport parking lot isn’t asking for it to be stolen, then I don’t know what is.”
“Carina, I’m going to need you to stop talking custom autocraft to me long enough for this boner to go down so I can get out of the vehicle.”
With a disgusted grunt, Carina got out and slammed her door. I giggled and followed her to the trunk to get our mountain of baggage.
***
We were halfway through our flight to Taern before I realized neither of us had eaten yet.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
Carina looked up from trying to decipher another of the ancient texts I’d sent her. She considered the question for a lot longer than necessary, staring off into the middle distance.
“It’s not cyborgcromantic science,” I said. “Is the iron stomach rumbling or isn’t it?”
“I haven’t really been hungry lately,” she said, the smallest hint of melancholy creeping into her voice. “But, yeah, I guess I should eat sometime.”
“I know just what you need.”
***
The line cook from the diner was waiting for us when we stepped out of the jetway at Taern International. I transferred the agreed upon ridiculously huge delivery fee into her account, then took our biscuits and gravy and led Carina to the First Class lounge to eat while we waited for our flight.
“I’ve never heard of a diner delivering before,” Carina said, sitting at the handsome real wood table.
I took the seat across from her. “I’ve never had to pay for a line cook’s kid to go to medical school before. Enjoy the novelty. Here.”
I handed her the shaker of red pepper flakes I’d told the cook to bring.
Carina stared at it in surprise. “You got this for me.”
“Don’t get started with your romantic delusions, sister.” I dug into my double order. “That siltbrain probably thought she was being funny, putting that crap in with the real food.”
“Thank you, Van Zandt.”
“Unwarranted feelings of significance are a very real mental health concern, Carina,” I said.
She smirked and started coating her biscuits and gravy with the nasty stuff.
“I’ve noticed,” she said.
***
Because of a winter megacell passing through the area, our flight from Taern landed at Giku International with just enough time for us to grab our baggage and sprint to our Kalian connection. The puddle jumper we were booked on was small enough that we got to throw our bags into the cargo hold ourselves, then join the pair of offshore drillers and the microbiologist who were the only other passengers. The drillers kept to themselves, and the microbiologist turned out to be more boring than a naughty holo of asexual reproduction. While Carina listened to the woman yammer on about cultural behavior in polar tardigrades, I tuned out and checked my SilverPlatter app.
Carina had one message waiting, a reply to one she’d sent late last night after throwing her little temper tantrum and stomping off to bed.
CX 00:13:24 Sorry for the short notice, Tarren, but I can’t make coffee tomorrow. See you next week?
A Tarren Beausoleil had gotten back to her early this morning.
TB 05:45:19 No worries, trushka, I remember how unspec is. Never knew when Kai would be called out. Stay safe out there. Give Nico a kiss from me and tell him to give you one from me, too.
In all the excitement of leaving, I hadn’t had time to check Carina’s messages. I couldn’t send it through now with the original timestamp, so I purchased the CleanSlate add-on to SilverPlatter, and changed the timestamp to the current time, then approved it for delivery.
Carina’s wristpiece beeped with the notification. She glanced down at it for a second, but chose not to open her message while pretending to listen to the Microbiologist Who Wouldn’t Shut Up.
I opened my library of ancient texts and did some more reading on the Garden of Time, both because we needed all of the information we could get, and because I didn’t want Carina to see me on my wristpiece one second, then off immediately after a notification popped up on hers. Even in her depression and confusion over Nick’s sudden disappearance and my sudden availability to make her every fantasy come true, she was too smart to miss the connection.
***
Unfortunately for us, the Microbiologist Who Wouldn’t Shut Up was heading out on the same icebreaker we were—apparently she’d been studying the tardigrades out in the Wraith’s Sea around the southeastern side of the ice cap for years and couldn’t get enough of the chilly little bastards—and she was catching a ride in the same snowcrawler we were. I’d had about enough of Carina ignoring me, so before she got the chance, I slid into the backseat of the snowcrawler, next to the yappy scientist.
Carina raised an eyebrow at me.
“You can ride in front with Sven,” I told her.
The driver turned around in his seat. “I told you, my name is Lawrence.”
“Outstanding. Let’s get going,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “That icebreaker’s not going to wait.”
Carina climbed in front with Sven. With a squeal of gears, the snowcrawler lurched into motion.
I turned to the microbiologist. She had an all right face. On the thin, beaky side, but at least that meant she probably wasn’t fat under all those layers. Of course, that could also mean that she didn’t have much rack to speak of. At the edges of her fur-lined hood, gray hairs had started to infiltrate the dirty blond. I tried
picturing her tummy, and all I got back was the papery, wrinkly skin of those old farts from the Sharp Right Turn’s club.
“I didn’t catch that last thing you were saying before we landed,” I said, raising my voice enough that I could be heard over the growl of the engine. “When Carina asked you about the practical application of your study on tardigrade interaction.”
“Oh.” The microbiologist blinked. Her eyelids were maps of infinitesimal lines. “I didn’t realize you were interested. Most people aren’t. Your wife is the first person who’s really listened to me go on about water bears in…well, since my husband passed.”
I hadn’t heard Carina mention our relationship to the microbiologist on the flight down here. Either the microbiologist was making assumptions based on the way she saw Carina looking at me or that sly old hag was trying to find out whether Carina and I were together.
I plastered on a perfect imitation of that sappy dog-grin Nickie-boy used to give Carina.
“We’re not married yet, just engaged,” I said.
Carina didn’t look back. Up front, she and Sven were trying to have a conversation by shouting over the snowcrawler’s engine.
“This is our pre-honeymoon,” I told the microbiologist. “We’re snow fetishists, so this whole trip is one huge engine-rev for us, if you know what I mean.”
“Uh, congratulations on your engagement,” the microbiologist said, squirming in her seat. “When my late husband and I were engaged—”
“Yeah, you mentioned him being dead,” I said. “I think what you’re trying to say is it wouldn’t technically be adultery for either of us if you were to spot me a hand job right now.”
Her jaw dropped. “Well, I never!”
“Not with that attitude,” I agreed. “But the offer stands.”
She crossed her arms and scooted as far away from me as the crawler’s tiny backseat would let her get.
I grinned and leaned back in my seat. It was going to be a pleasant ride to the icebreaker after all.
