by Walker, Rysa
For the first few weeks, I tried really hard to convince myself that this is just a different country. That this is a high-tech Six Million Dollar Man kind of place, maybe somewhere in Europe or India. Most of the doctors and attendants I've seen are dark-skinned. Or at least darker than I am, even after summers at the pool. Hair color tells me nothing. There's every color of hair in the freakin' rainbow, often on the same person. Cyndi Lauper would feel right at home here. Some of the words they use are odd, but it’s definitely English.
The tattoo thingies are what finally force me to accept that I'm either not on Earth or I’m not in 1984. Most people have at least one of the tattoos, and nearly all of them move. One of the men who lifts me out of the goo-tub has an image of a little girl's face on the inside of his arm. When he caught me staring, he said it was his daughter when she was tiny. Said how nice it was to look at the picture now that she's all grown up. He tapped the image and then twisted his arm around so that I could see the video that hovered about two inches above his skin…that same little girl dancing in a tutu.
The tutu looks a lot like the one I wore six or seven years ago when I thought ballet was cool. But everything else in this place is pure Star Wars.
I think maybe they use the tattoos as telephones, too, because one guy touched his and then started talking about something that didn't have anything at all to do with my therapy. Acted like I wasn’t even in the room, but I couldn’t hear anyone else talking.
Once I'm somewhat mobile, they start moving me over to the windows, into the sunshine. The Washington Monument off in the distance confirms that I’m still in DC, but the layout of the city seems different. Less green space. More water.
The attendant comes in once I’m settled and drops the flat black rectangle into my lap again. It’s about the size and shape of a Pop-Tart. Probably another of their psych tests. No thanks. I push it aside and close my eyes, just as I did yesterday and the day before.
"Come on," she says, coaxing my head back toward the front. "You need something to keep your mind clicking. Why stare at the wall all day? You can game. Or read. Watch a vid. Just blink twice and then nav with your eyes."
She leaves the Pop-Tart thingamajig in my lap this time, and after a while, I start playing around with it. It's frustrating as hell at first, but eventually a transparent screen sort of pops up in front of me. It reminds me of how the hologram of Princess Leia shows up when Luke presses the button on R2-D2…it’s there, but you can still kind of see through it. The music selection totally sucks and there aren't any games I recognize on the menu, but a few shows seem interesting. Sort of like soap operas, except they keep pausing at key moments, waiting for me to make a choice. Should Daura confess to Elon? Should Abro return the levbar he took from Sam? This would be a lot more fun with Deb around to make fun of their accents and clothes and bad acting, but it passes the time.
When it eventually dawns on me that these little Choose Your Own Adventure stories are just another form of mental exam, I push the Pop-Tart aside. But after few hours, boredom wins out and I search around until I locate books. Thousands of them. Mostly writers I don't recognize, but there are exceptions. Some I know from school, like Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, the Bronte sisters. Poe. A lot of stuff by Stephen King, including The Shining, which Mother confiscated last year because…you guessed it, too old for me.
I was born in 1970. I've been told it’s now October 2305. I did the math and I'm pretty sure that makes me an adult, so I'll read any damn thing I want. And since they're probably analyzing the books I choose, the King stories will give them something to chew on. They can wonder whether I'm just waiting for the right moment to go all Firestarter on them.
The time goes faster once I have something to do. For the first few days, I read a lot of stuff set in the 1980s, because it's familiar. Comforting. But that just makes me homesick, so I start reading fantasy, hoping to find something even more out-there than my own situation.
I haven’t had much success on that front.
I'm about a hundred pages into another King book—The Drawing of the Three—when the door opens. The doctors and nurses usually knock first to give me a few seconds’ notice. Maybe they decided why bother since I never respond.
It’s not one of the medical people. The man has been here before, though, back when I was in the goop. I saw him again one day when I was coming back from the physical therapy room. The eyes—unnaturally bright and piercing—are why I remember him. He’s dressed the same as before, in a plain gray suit that looks a lot like menswear from my time, minus the tie. A piece of jewelry—a simple gold circle—sits in front of the top button on his white shirt, just below an Adam’s apple that looks like he swallowed an egg. Dark blue hair is slicked back from his forehead. Just a single shade, which is as close as you get to button-down around here.
The nurse made him go away before, but either he snuck past when they weren’t watching or they’ve given him the green light to question me. Because I can tell that’s why he’s here. His odd eyes are narrowed down into inquisitive little slits as he crosses to the window where I’m sitting.
“Ms. Shaw? Detective Sutter.”
I shoot him a quick glance, and then look back out the window. Hopefully, he’ll take the hint and leave.
No such luck. He parks his uninvited butt in the other chair and leans forward, scowling. “Enough wallowing in self-pity, young lady. If you’re well enough to read, you’re well enough to answer some questions.”
When I don’t look at him, he slides his chair closer to the window so that he’s partially in my line of sight. But two can play that game. I put my feet on the floor, bracing some of my weight on them. Then I turn my own chair a few inches to the right, fighting to keep from wincing when the pain shoots through my legs. That hurt even worse than the physical therapy.
Sutter’s annoyed huff is worth the agony, even though I can still feel his creepy eyes glaring at the back of my head. But it only lasts a moment and then he’s up, grabbing the edges of my chair to twist me back around to face him.
“I can do this all day, Ms. Shaw. But I’m guessing you can’t. While I’m quite certain you’re faking the inability to speak, I’ve seen your med files…broken spine, broken hip, multiple fractures pretty much everywhere else. Why don’t we stop playing games and get down to business?”
He taps something on his arm and then swirls his finger in the air, pivoting an image so that it faces me. It’s a video or holograph or whatever of my mother, a little younger than she was in the pictures from when Deb and I were babies. She’s at a party of some sort—noisy and crowded, with small groups chatting in the background. A tall, thin man with dark hair has one arm around her, and she’s laughing as the guy leans in close to the recorder, clearly trying to get his point across.
“…better back then. Ask any man who can use the key and he’ll tell you the same. Well, except maybe Richard or Grant, but—”
My mother laughs again and elbows him. “Be nice, Saul.”
“Shush, Kathy. Your only job tonight is to look beautiful and tell me how brilliant I am.”
They all laugh and someone says, “Oooh…burned, Kathy.” The voice is familiar, but I’m not sure why.
She fake-punches the Saul guy and starts to walk away, but he laughs and pulls her back, kissing her hard before he turns back to finish what he was saying.
Saul is handsome. He looks a lot like that actor in The Outsiders, the one who played Soda? Rob Somebody. Except he’s older, maybe even thirty.
Sutter pauses the video. “Can you identify any of these people?”
When I don’t respond, he taps the air to zoom in on a man in one of the clusters along the far wall. He’s younger, with light brown hair, and he’s staring over at Mother and the dark-haired guy. He looks worried.
“How about him?”
I turn my head away from the recording and Sutter springs up out of the chair, getting right in my face. The eyes that seemed weir
d at a distance are downright freaky up close. Little lights shine inside them—not reflections, but actually inside his eyes.
“Katherine Shaw is your mother. Saul Rand is your father. We know this. So how did you wind up here with the key that belonged to Richard Viers?”
I lean back into the chair and squeeze my eyelids tight so that I can’t see his weird robo-eyes. It doesn’t stop me from hearing him, however, or from inhaling his breath, which smells green and chemical, like cilantro.
I want to scream back at him. What key? The only key I was carrying is the one to our house. I don’t know this Saul Rand. I don’t know anyone named Richard Viers, either.
After a few seconds, Sutter pulls away. I hear him drop back into the chair, huffing several times like he’s trying to get a grip on his temper.
Then Mother’s voice is back. I open my eyes again without even thinking.
“…misusing resources. How can future generations hold us in anything but contempt if we fail to use this great power to guide the ship?”
This image isn’t at the party. There’s no background noise. It looks like an apartment. I can see the sky and the tops of buildings through the window behind her, and when she laughs I know she’s been drinking.
More accurately, she’s drunk, or close to it. I’ve only seen her that way a few times, most recently last year, when she and Dad came back from some faculty party. The sitter—and no, we really didn’t need a sitter at thirteen, but whatever—let us stay up to watch Saturday Night Live. It was right after Belushi died and they were doing a tribute. Mom and Dad came in during a musical number. Mink Deville was singing some love song, and Mom pulled Dad into a dance move. He nearly dropped her and they both started laughing.
No, let’s be honest. They were giggling.
Neither of my parents are gigglers, especially not my mother. Deb and I weren’t one bit surprised when she stumbled downstairs the next morning, headed straight for the Alka-Seltzer and the coffee, and then closed herself off in the study for most of the day. And I doubt she was reading anything academic.
That’s how she sounds in this holograph. Giggly. Giddy. It’s a bit disgusting, although to be fair, she’s not that old here. College age, maybe?
After a brisk shake of her head, she starts in again, and I can tell she’s making an effort to keep a straight face. “Our hands have been tied long enough by those who think we should sit by and watch as our forefathers make one catastrophic mistake after another. I will sever the ties that bind us to a history where fate and happenstance dictate the fortune of the world. I will be the Joan of Arc for a new CHRONOS built upon the ashes of the old!”
She glances off to the right, and it looks like she’s going to crack up again, but she gives the camera one last firm and determined stare and then the picture vanishes.
“So.” Sutter folds his hands in his lap and I close my eyes again, because now that the image is gone it’s just him and his freaky eyes in front of me. “You’re clearly part of this ‘new CHRONOS’ she envisioned. How long has she been training you? Who else was working with her when she destroyed headquarters? Your father? Richard Viers? You can either answer now, or I’ll get a court order to chemically induce your responses.”
The idea of Sutter’s people pumping some sort of truth serum into me is terrifying, but I don’t have anything to tell him. And a lot of his questions make it sound like I might need a lawyer.
Do they still have lawyers?
I squeeze my eyes shut even harder and turn my head away. Yes, I know that ignoring him won’t make him disappear, and I know I’m acting like a stubborn toddler, but what can I tell him? I showed up in some future-era bombed-out building and he clearly believes my mother was the bomber. How could I possibly convince him that I don’t know anything about it?
“Your choice, Ms. Shaw. Which is—”
“You’re not supposed to be in here without one of the attendants, Sutter.” It’s the voice I heard earlier in the hologram thing, the guy who said Ooh, burned, Kathy. I recognize it now. Tate somebody. He's been here before. Three times that I recall. His is the first face I saw, aside from my evil twin, when I was hurt. He’s the one who lifted me out of the rubble.
Tate also asks questions when he visits, but if I don't respond, he doesn't seem pissed off. Since I don’t talk, he just talks to me. He's why I know it's October 2305. Why I know I've been in this hospital for over five months.
Sutter gives him a disdainful glance. “Thought she might be more inclined to talk without a crowd, Poulsen. But apparently, we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”
He heads toward the door, but Tate is blocking the exit and Tate is big. Sutter may be skinny, but there’s no way he can squeeze through. Tate gives it a couple of beats and then steps into the room so Sutter can leave.
“Friggin’ moron,” he mutters, after Sutter is gone.
Tate isn’t as old as I thought at first. Twenty, maybe? Handsome in a He-Man sort of way. The slightly hooked nose that probably wouldn’t work on most faces somehow fits his. I mostly ignore him when he visits, although I definitely sneak glances now and then. But his comment about Sutter makes me smile.
When I pretend to go back to my reading, he says, "Brought you something, Prudence."
It’s the first time anyone has called me by my name. They all seem to be sure that I’m either Deb or Pru, so they clearly pulled up some sort of records. But they can’t pin down which one and I haven’t confirmed one way or the other, so they tend to call me kid or sweetie. Or Miss Rand, which I didn’t understand at all to begin with.
Tate sounds pretty confident that he’s nailed it, however, and he laughs when I look up. It's a friendly laugh, accompanied by a nice smile that crinkles up his blue eyes.
"So you are listening. Wondering how I knew your name?"
I don't answer, but I don’t look away, either. He’s holding a box in his hands and after a moment, he lifts something out by a leather strap.
It's my purse, the one Deb gave me for Christmas last year, with my initials—PKP—embroidered on the front flap. My lips start to tremble when he hands it to me and I clutch it to my face, partly to hide my reaction, partly to smell the leather. I've been in a hospital gown for half a year. My clothes were never returned to me, although they were pretty ripped up, so there may not have been much to return. This is the first thing I've touched since they took the medallion away that has any connection to home. Everything here smells dry and antiseptic, even the food to some extent, and the scent of the leather mixed with the mint from my box of Tic Tacs starts the tears flowing.
"Hey, don't cry." Tate's voice is surprisingly gentle for such a big guy. He kneels down by the hospital bed and squeezes my hand. "You must have dropped it when you…fell in. They've been cataloging stuff from the wreckage for the museum. Someone found this the other day. I told my boss I'd bring it by."
It's hard to imagine Tate working in a museum. He looks like he should be wrestling Killer Khan and Andre the Giant.
I open the bag and look inside. My Lip Smackers, mascara, a brush, some hairbands. Gum. The Tic Tacs I smelled. My Walkman, the front plate now covered with a spiderweb of cracks. Headphones, cassettes. The only thing missing is the very thing I want—my wallet. Not for the money. I doubt I have five bucks in there. I want the pictures.
My disappointment must show. "The CHRONOS people…kept some things,” Tate says. “They're still trying to understand exactly what happened." He nods at the Walkman in my lap. "Does it still work?"
I push the play button, and the little rotors spin, but only for a second.
"Damn batteries…"I don't realize I've said it aloud until I see Tate's grin.
"So you can talk after all. I was beginning to think the trip goxed up your brain and there was nothing going on behind the pretty face."
The blood rushes to my cheeks and I look back into the purse to cover my embarrassment. But since I’ve let the cat out of the bag, it seems s
tupid to go back to the silent act, at least with him.
"Do you think those people…the CHRONOS people…would give me back my pictures? They’re in my wallet. They can have the money and anything else they want."
"I don’t think they want your money. And I’m pretty sure they’d give them back if you'd answer a few questions.” When he sees my expression, he adds, “I'm not saying you have to tell them anything. But…you're going to be healed soon, right? The nurse said you took four steps today. And they don't know what to do with you."
"I want to go home."
"Prudence, I don't—"
"Pru. It's just Pru."
I don't go into it, but long story short, this name is the only rotten thing my Dad ever did to me. It's his mom's name, so I don't complain. There are no good short versions, and I can’t use my middle name. I share that one with my mother and she gets on my last nerve. So I’m stuck with Pru, like it or not.
Tate doesn't finish what he was about to say when I interrupted, but it's pretty clear that he either doesn't think I can get home or doesn't think they'll let me.
"If they'd give me back that medallion thing, maybe I can reverse what brought me here?"
I don’t know what I did that landed me in that pit. Still, it stands to reason that the medallion is why I’m here, and therefore it’s my best shot for getting home.
Tate sighs. "Pru, it doesn't work that way. The jump room is gone. All of the equipment, too. It was destroyed in the explosion. And…unless something pretty major happens to change their minds, it's not being rebuilt.” His jaw tightens on the last part and he takes a deep breath before going on. “They're still not sure how you ended up here. Everyone else they found at the…epicenter, or whatever, was with CHRONOS. I mean, they know who you are from your DNA, but—"
"How? How do they know who I am? Or my parents? If this is really 2305, my parents have been dead for hundreds of years. How do they have videos of my mother?"
Tate sighs and goes back over to the chair near the window. "Time travel works both ways. You came here. Your parents went…there. Listen, maybe it would be better if I get Sutter—or better yet, one of the other officials—to come back in and talk to you about all of this. Now that you've gotten your voice back."
