Rewinder

by Battles, Brett

  “They really should have told us that ahead of time.”

  “If you’d known, would you have refused the offer?”

  “I didn’t even know what I was coming to.”

  “But you did know it was going to be a hell of a lot more interesting than the life you would have had otherwise.”

  “You’re right,” I say after a moment. “I would’ve still come. But I don’t think Lidia would have.”

  “Lidia?”

  “She was in my group. Trained in the room next to ours.”

  “Ah, right. Lidia Hampstead. She was a…placement.”

  “What’s a placement?”

  “Rewinders typically come from families who are Threes, Fours, and Fives. Now and then we’ll get the occasional Six.”

  “I’m an Eight,” I say.

  “You were a Eight. Yours was a…rare case. The institute’s only taken two other from that far down, but they couldn’t ignore your test scores. Still, Lady Williams had serious doubts. That’s why you were tested again and why she was personally there. And it took Sir Gregory to convince her to take you. It’s good to see his belief in you has paid off.”

  I never even considered that I was the lowest caste member in my training class. That’s probably why most of the others ignored me, and a few—Lidia at the lead—did nothing to hide their contempt.

  “Why would Sir Gregory do that for me?”

  She looks at me as if I should already know the answer. “Why would you think?”

  A potential answer comes to me, but I find it hard to believe so I say nothing.

  Before the silence stretches too long, Marie continues. “There’s a certain prestige among the elite for having an offspring at the institute. Those with eighteen-year-olds who achieve a certain score level on the tests can request placement within the program. Usually these candidates come from large families who have children to spare. Per the institute’s royal charter, names of new institute members are sent to the king. By offering one of their own, a family can gain favor with the Crown and receive advantages such as tax breaks, knighthoods, and even the possibility of moving into the nobility if they aren’t there already.”

  “I’m on the list?” I asked, surprised.

  “Of course.”

  I can barely get my head around the thought that the king has seen my name.

  Marie looks at me. “Is this what you wanted to discuss?”

  I push away my thoughts of the king and shake my head. “Not just that.” I tell her about Harlan Walker, the adjusted family report, his death, and the mention in the paper of the donation to the Upjohn Institute. “I wanted to get another copy of the paper so I tried to go outside. That’s how I ended up talking to Sir Gregory.” I frown. “If you don’t believe me, you could find a copy of the paper.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  “Hold on,” I say. “You’re the one who left the paper for me, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  There’s nothing hidden by her demeanor so I’m pretty sure she’s telling the truth. “Do you know who did?”

  Her shrug is less convincing than her no.

  “Who do you—”

  “Situations such as Mr. Walker’s happen all the time,” she says, refocusing our discussion. “Though not everyone kills themselves.”

  I want to push her on the point of who left the newspaper, but I know it’d be a wasted effort so I say, “Then it wasn’t a heart attack.”

  “I don’t know for sure,” she said. “I haven’t looked into this case, but what do you think?”

  “Suicide. What I don’t understand is, why?”

  “What do you think the institute really does?”

  The words come automatically out of my mouth. “We trace family histories.”

  “We uncover family histories,” she says. “The good and the bad. What the institute usually reports is only the good. The bad is kept for other things.”

  “Johnston said something similar, that the bad just gets filed away.”

  “That’s the company line, and Johnston is nothing if not a topflight company man,” she says, not hiding her disdain. “Let me tell you how things probably went with Walker. First, Lady Williams presented him with a clean but inaccurate family history. All smiles and thank-yous and respect. A few days later, Sir Wilfred pays Walker a follow-up visit, in which he presents the true facts, ones that could destroy the family’s social standing and spell disaster for its business. Several options will be laid out, the important part of each being a ‘sizable donation’ to the Upjohn Institute.”

  “Blackmail.”

  “Yes.”

  “So they told Walker to kill himself?”

  “I’m sure that was one of the possibilities covered. In which case, those who inherit would be brought into the discussion. It doesn’t matter to the institute which direction is chosen. Its only concerns are the size of the donation and that the institute never comes under any scrutiny.”

  “So when we receive payment, the bad goes away?”

  She shrugs. “Until it’s needed again.”

  “That’s…” I don’t know which word to use—terrible, disgusting, unbelievable. None fully conveys the revulsion I feel. “I can’t believe the institute would do something like that.”

  “Oh, Denny,” she says. “You’ve spent nearly your whole life hovering just above the bottom of society. Surely you realized long ago that everything in the empire is corrupt.”

  We’re taught from a very young age that to degrade the empire is to degrade the king, so saying the words out loud is treasonous. But she’s right. I’ve seen my share of corruption and learned early on to turn a blind eye to it. The difference here is that this is on a scale much grander than the daily graft I’ve been exposed to.

  “You’re saying our job is to feed the corruption,” I whisper.

  “Only if you always follow regulations.”

  I look at her, apprehensive. “What are you talking about?”

  “You and I have spent a lot of time together. I could tell early on you know the difference between right and wrong. We wouldn’t be having this discussion otherwise. All I’m saying is that sometimes it’s okay to ignore what you’ve been taught. Maybe you come across something you think the institute might use in ways you’re not comfortable with. You can choose not to report it. As you get a sense of those you’re tracing, you can decide how much or how little the institute learns.”

  These words are treason on a slightly smaller, institute-related scale, and would certainly result in her being locked up in some deep, dark dungeon at Upjohn Hall.

  She must be reading my mind, because she says, half smiling, “You’re free to turn me in if you want, but I would appreciate it if you don’t. At the very least, give me some warning.”

  “Of course I won’t turn you in.” How can I when everything she says makes sense?

  “All I’m really trying to tell you is that when you’re unsure of a situation, you should take however long you need and then do what you think is right. If you’re not true to yourself, this job will kill you.”

  The part of me that remembers growing up as the son of a laborer—constantly reminded to “know your place” and “don’t make waves” and “do as you’re told”—is waging an all-out war with the part of my mind that wants to embrace the path Marie is offering me.

  “I’m only telling you to do what you think is right,” she says.

  “Is that what you’ve been doing?”

  She looks across the meadow, whatever’s left of her smile disappearing. “Not as much as I should.”

  “How am I supposed to know what’s right?”

  “You’ll know.”

  Will I?

  As the sun nears the mountains to our west, the temperature drops noticeably. Marie rubs her arms. “Is there anything else you wanted to know?”

  A million things, I think, but what she’s already told me has overloaded my mind. “Not right n
ow.”

  “Then you should head back.”

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “In a bit. Go on. I’ll be fine.”

  Once I’m off the rock, I ask, “If I have more questions, can we meet again?”

  “We’ll see.”

  It’s not exactly the answer I’m hoping for but at least she doesn’t say no. I turn, intending to put a little distance between us before I travel home.

  “It’s Roger, by the way,” she says.

  I pause and look back. “I’m sorry?”

  “The student I hadn’t met yet who watched Dawson Tower go down. His name’s Roger. I’m training him now.”

  “Is he your last?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. Haven’t planned on stopping.”

  “Maybe you can take future students somewhere else. The roof is getting a bit crowded.”

  “Maybe.”

  I detect her uncertainty and wonder what she’s thinking.

  “Go home, Denny,” she says before I can ask. “You’ll do fine.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AS WINTER BECOMES spring, Johnston assigns me more and more responsibility on each of our projects. Sometimes it feels like I’m doing all the work while he finds a place to get a drink and wait until I’m done, but I’m not complaining.

  I enjoy the work. I enjoy the places we go and the things we see.

  So far, I’ve been lucky in that I haven’t found myself needing to decide whether or not I should cover up something. I know I will at some point. When that time comes, I hope I’m not too scared to do what Marie has suggested.

  The first time Johnston leaves me completely alone, we’re in London, England, 1893, tracking the maternal great-grandfather of a minor industrialist from northern Virginia. According to what we’ve been able to piece together, today is the day the man will meet his future wife for the first time. This isn’t a critical item, exactly, but clients love to know these small details. Our job today is to verify the meeting.

  “You ready?” Johnston asks.

  “Of course.” I assume he’s about to go in search of a pub, so I ask, “Where are we meeting up?”

  Johnston shakes his head. “No meeting. I have things to do back at the institute. Return when you’re done.”

  My blood goes cold. “You’re leaving me here alone?”

  “You’ve been handling everything by yourself just fine for the past several weeks. What does it matter if I’m here or not?”

  “But what if something happens?”

  “If something happens, you’ve done something wrong. You’re not going to do anything wrong, are you?”

  “No. Of course not, but—”

  “Just do the job and return to the institute. Got it?”

  Reflexively I nod, while inside I’m shouting, No, I don’t have it! I don’t have it at all!

  “Good. I’ll see you when you’re finished.” He strides off, and I soon lose him among the other pedestrians on the walkway.

  I’m hoping he’s only trying to fool me and isn’t really leaving, but I know in my gut that the moment he gets someplace private, he’ll be gone.

  I take several deep breaths to calm down.

  “Are you all right?” A man has stopped nearby and is looking at me, concerned.

  “I’m fine, thank you. Just…a little winded.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  With a nod, he moves on.

  I look across the street at the target house just in time to see the man I’m supposed to be following turn onto the sidewalk. I almost missed him. This realization nearly spins me into another near panic attack, but I keep my head and take up pursuit.

  It turns out that our information’s correct, and at precisely 1:43 p.m. on July 2, 1893, Harold Radcliff runs into an old friend named David Wallis who introduces Harold to his sister, Elizabeth Wallis. In exactly eight months and seven days, Harold and Elizabeth would wed.

  I note all the pertinent information and even snap several photographs with the camera built into my jacket—the latter strictly for institute records.

  As soon as the meeting ends, I find a deserted space between two buildings and send myself home.

  For two more weeks, Johnston and I repeat this pattern. We jump to our specified location together, Johnston makes sure I’m set on what to do, and then he returns to the institute while I do the work alone.

  On the fifteenth day, I enter the prep room and begin pulling on the outfit that’s waiting for me. When Johnston enters several minutes later, he sits on the bench.

  “Have we been canceled?” I ask.

  “Not that I know of,” he says.

  “Are you…going to wear that?” His clothes are distinctly twenty-first century and would definitely stand out in 1824.

  He gives himself a quick look. “You don’t like this?”

  “It’s fine, but—never mind.”

  He snorts a laugh. “Hurry up.”

  I button my shirt, pull on my shoes, and follow him out the door.

  As we walk to the departure hall, Johnston quizzes me about our assignment. Like with all our projects, I’ve memorized the brief, so I answer everything quickly and correctly.

  “Good,” he says as we enter the hall. From him, this is the highest of praise.

  The room has eight different platforms raised a few feet above the floor. Checking the board, we see we’re assigned to platform number five. As soon as we get there, I climb on top, and then realize Johnston hasn’t joined me.

  “You know what to do,” he says from below. “Get the information and get back.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “You’re more than ready for a solo.”

  As far as I know, none of the others from my training group have gone solo yet, so the idea of my being the first causes my stomach to flip a few times and threaten to give back my breakfast. “O-okay,” I say.

  I grasp my Chaser in both hands and tell myself, Just go through the protocol.

  I check the settings and make sure the location number and date and time match those from the briefing.

  I turn to the raised dais where the departure officer sits overlooking the platforms. When he turns in my direction, I give him the ready signal—flat palm forward, then curled into a fist.

  Over the speaker above my platform comes the voice of Palmer’s data observer in the companion center. “Stand by.”

  Several seconds pass, then the voice says, “Benson, clear.”

  Trying to project an aura of confidence I don’t feel, I raise my finger and depress the button.

  There is no reason to have gotten so worked up. The job is the easiest I’ve had since finishing training—a half hour spent in an abandoned graveyard and another walking through a quiet neighborhood verifying addresses—which was probably why it was chosen for my first solo mission.

  Onward I go alone, day after day, each mission taken with less fear but more difficult than the last.

  I’ve got this. I’m truly a Rewinder now.

  I can do whatever they give me.

  I can do it all.

  __________

  ONE MORNING, AFTER I’ve been taking trips on my own for about three weeks, Johnston says, “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Not your health, jackass,” he says. “I mean about the job.”

  I give him the same answer.

  “Administration wants to know if you’re ready to be cut free,” he informs me. “What do you think?”

  I have to catch myself from blurting out, “Yes, absolutely,” and instead ask, “What did you tell them?”

  “That you’re close. Another week should do it.”

  I feel a smile grow on my face before I can stop it. That’s still a whole three months before my supervised period is supposed to last. “Yeah, a week sounds right.”

  “You ready for today’s mission?”

  “Yes.” The job today wil
l be challenging—there will be following over physical distance and observation of several locations. It should be interesting, though, because unlike most of our missions, it revolves around a tiny bit of history.

  “Then let’s get to it.”

  We walk side by side to the departure hall. As always, several of the platforms are in use. We are on number seven this time. As I take the short staircase up, I spot Lidia on platform one with her supervisor. Though I’ve seen her several times since the conversation we had in the dining hall months ago, we’ve never talked again. When she notices I’m standing on my platform alone, she gawks for a moment before turning away, tight lipped, then she and her supervisor, Bernard Swanson, disappear into the past. I can’t deny her annoyance gives me pleasure, but I unfortunately don’t have any time to enjoy it.

  I take my position, check the settings, and give the departure officer the signal. When I receive the “clear” announcement, I press the button.

  Since I’m going nearly two hundred and fifty years back, I’m using the hop method. For most of the journey, everything seems fine—2015 fades, the gray mist appears, and 1963 winks in for a second before the next jump initiates. Back I go, through the early twentieth century and across the nineteenth. Every time I’m in the gray mist, I feel the connection with Palmer and sense the same hint of jealousy I’ve picked up each time since I started going solo.

  It’s on the final hop, though, when everything changes. As I leave 1839, the gray once more surrounds me, but then suddenly it’s like someone has started flipping a switch back and forth, the gray turning black then gray then black before settling on gray again. And that’s not the only weirdness. I don’t feel Palmer at all.

  Finally, I’m deposited into the dark of night as a splitting headache doubles me over.

  Nearly thirty minutes pass before I feel well enough to function again. I check my Chaser screen first to verify I’ve arrived in 1775. I then take a look around and find that I am, as planned, in a farm field, standing between rows of some kind of grain.

  I’ve made it, and now it’s time to go to work.

  I reset my Chaser for sixteen hours in the future and jump.