by Walker, Rysa
Tate rolls his eyes. “Stash it, Sutter! Pru is as much a victim of her mom as anyone else. She’s just spent seven months in rehab, for God’s sake.”
“Didn’t say it was rational,” Sutter mumbles, although his expression suggests he might not entirely disagree with that point of view. “Just said it’s how some people feel. I believe the girl is telling the truth, but…”
Of course he believes me, now that he’s looked deep into my soul or conscience or whatever with his demon eyes. I fight back the urge to say something nasty and just give him a twitch of a smile.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep to myself.”
And I will. What would I have to talk about with someone from this time period? I can carry on a decent conversation with Tate because we have a few common points of reference. He’s been to the 1980s…well, the 1990s. Close enough.
I’ll do what I have to do, say what I have to say, but I don’t plan on making friends here. Because I don’t plan on staying. I just want to find a key and go home to fix this mess.
Because you have to be able to fix things with these keys, right? Otherwise, what’s the point of CHRONOS? I’ll go back and prevent the accident, maybe convince Dad that Mother is crazy, and then he’ll take me and Deb somewhere far away from her.
And yes, I know how it will sound to him. Hey, Dad. The woman you’re married to is from the future. She blew up a bunch of people and broke half the bones in my body.
He probably won’t believe me. But Deb will. And worst-case scenario, if the parental units present a united front, we’ll only have to put up with Mother for a few more years until college. Anything is better than staying here.
When Coralys arrives with my walking papers, Sutter takes that as his cue to leave. Thank God. I was worried he was going to tag along behind me, watching every step. My own personal freaky-eyed shadow.
Once Tate and I are outside—really and truly outside—I hold my face up to the sky, enjoying the warmth on my skin.
He laughs. “You’d think they never let you see the sunshine.”
“Well, they didn’t. Not really. There was a barrier in the solarium. Glass or something. I saw a bird smack right into it. I couldn’t feel the breeze and it still smelled like…nothing. At least you can smell the trees out here.”
And that’s true, although I realize it still doesn’t really feel like—or smell like—I’m in a city. There aren’t any cars, for one thing. Some train-like things whoosh by above us—far above us—but no individual vehicles. There are still roads and occasionally someone zips by instead of walking, like they did in the hospital corridors. Occasionally it’s something that flies by, like a box or container. I don’t know how it works. It’s one of the many techno things I just don’t ask about, because most of the people can’t explain it, and those who can use so many words I don’t understand that I’m just as clueless when they finish as I was at the beginning.
I decided to think about all this stuff like I do TV or the microwave. I have only a vague sense of how either of those work. Did that ever stop me from popping a bag of Orville Redenbacher to munch on while I watched Knight Rider? No, it did not.
I wonder if they’ll have ancient TV shows like that at this club where I’ll be living. I don’t know much about the place at this point, not even where it’s located.
“So…how are we getting to this…Optimist Club?”
“We’re walking,” Tate says. “It’s not far. Most everyone calls it the OC, and it’s the Objectivist Club, not Optimist. The members I know don’t seem very optimistic. Actually, a more fitting name might be the Egotist Club.”
“What is it exactly?”
He thinks for a moment. “They had gentlemen’s clubs that were similar in the major cities back in the early twentieth century, but…I’m not sure there’s anything like it in your time. It’s a place where wealthy people hang out and—”
“Country club?” I suggest.
Tate considers it and then nods. “Ye-e-s-s, but only if some of the members lived there, too. The building itself was constructed in the forties—sorry, the 2240s—but the Objectivist part of the name comes from a group back in your era. Truthfully, though, I’m not sure how much the two groups would have in common, aside from the conviction that individuals are under no moral obligation to help anyone other than themselves.”
“So…you don’t live there?” I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice, because I really did mean it when I told Sutter I plan to keep away from people at the OC. But I still have several months before the museum opens, and I’ve gotten kind of used to Tate stopping by every few days.
“I have…liberal guest privileges, but I’m not exactly a member. I know Campbell through Saul. My family isn’t as well connected as yours.”
His mouth tightens as he says this, so I don’t get the sense that he really likes this Campbell guy who owns the OC. I’m tempted to just drop it, but his comment about my family connections bothers me.
“They’re not my family. I don’t know them. Never met them.”
He shrugs. “Well, they’re footing your bills…”
“Why? If these Rand people are members of the Ob…jectivists?” He nods that I got the name right, and I go on. “If they’re Objectivists and they don’t think they have any moral obligation to help me, then why pay for this place? They’ve never even met me.”
“They haven’t,” he admits. “But they’ve seen the DNA report. Truth be, they probably just want you out of the way, somewhere they can keep the media from asking too many questions about the fact that Saul’s your dad.”
“He’s not my dad,” I mutter, even though I know that, technically, I probably am his biological offspring. He might be my father, but that doesn’t make him my dad.
Of course, that starts me thinking about the accident again, and I don’t want to go down that road. I want a distraction. “Do we have to go straight to the OC?”
“Well…I guess not. Did you need to stop somewhere?”
“I wouldn’t exactly say need to stop, but…” I sigh. “Is there somewhere with junk food?”
“Ha! Like cheeseburgers and fries?”
It sounds really good, good enough to make me drool, especially if you add bacon, but I shake my head.
“Skip the burger. I don’t do meat. But God yes, fries. With ketchup. Maybe pizza or grilled cheese.”
“Why no meat?”
“Personal choice. Why should a cow die so I can have a burger?”
“Well, good point, except…animal sacrifice isn’t required anymore. Most meat comes from the food replicators. So your burger isn’t actually from the cow…the machine just replicates the chemical structure.”
“Oh, cool. Like on Star Trek.”
I don’t really expect him to get the reference, but he chuckles. “Yes. Tea Earl Grey Hot.”
“What?”
“Oh. That’s past your time, maybe. But yeah, it’s the same principle. Except the ones at the OC will be the expensive models. No lights or weird sounds while waiting for your burger to show up.”
“So…what happened to all the cows and pigs and chickens? Ranchers and farmers?”
“The various species are kept on reserves, and we have their genetic structure on file in case of unintentional extinction. There are still some people outside the cities who farm, who do things the old ways. I considered joining them…after CHRONOS was disbanded. My talents would be more useful there than in the city, and it would be closer to the life I prefer. But once they decided to open the museum, it wasn’t really an option. And I always feel like what they’re doing out there is…I don’t know. Pretend, I guess. Play-acting. That type of life isn’t cost-effective once a society reaches a certain size. You’re better off replicating. Although you can get real meat at some of the posher places, like the OC. It just costs more in credits than most people have.”
“Does the fake meat taste like meat?”
“Yes.” His voice is
hesitant. “Okay, not exactly. It’s meat, but I’ve yet to find a replicator that produces anything as good as the haunch of a freshly killed stag cooked over an open fire.” I wrinkle my nose at that and he adds, “Sorry. But it’s true.”
“It’s okay. So…people don’t eat out? They just order up what they want at home?”
“Oh, restaurants? Sure. Plenty of those. There are three in the OC, in fact. People still need somewhere to go when they want to socialize. Did you…”
He hesitates, and I get the strong sense that he’s not really into the idea.
So, even though the idea of sitting at a cafe and soaking up the sunshine while we eat is very tempting after so long inside, I shake my head. “I’ll get something at my apartment.”
My apartment.
One the one hand, those words are exciting. I didn’t think I’d be on my own for at least four or five years.
On the other hand, Deb is supposed to be here, too. We had it all planned. We’d go to college in either Boston (her choice) or California (my choice). After a year in the dorms, we’d get a place together off campus. A place that would let us have a dog (my choice) or maybe a cat (her choice).
I don’t want to live by myself. I wouldn’t have wanted that even in my time, and it goes double for here and now.
An image of the girl in the rubble—that other me—flashes into my mind. It’s the same image I see most nights when I close my eyes, and as usual, she’s holding the jagged rock that I smashed down on her head.
You won’t be alone, Pru. I’ll be there. I’ll keep you company each and every night.
A shiver creeps through me, but Tate doesn’t notice. He’s nodding toward a building up ahead. “They’ve got you on one of the upper floors. So you should have a good view of the fireworks. They shoot them off at midnight over near the National Mall.”
“Every night? Isn’t it loud?”
He laughs. “No, doof. It’s New Year’s Eve. Did you forget?”
I shake my head, even though I kind of had forgotten. Which was nice, because I’ve been trying to forget.
“What’s wrong?” Tate asks.
I want to go home, I think. But I just shake my head and say, “Nothing.”
He puts one hand on my arm and turns me around to face him, bending down so that he can look me in the eye. And he does have to bend down, because he’s way over six feet and I’m barely five four.
“Hey…you hardly talk to anyone other than me. So don’t tell me it’s nothing, when it’s clearly something. Otherwise, I’m going to tell CHRONOS they need to start the therapy sessions again—”
“No.” The therapist didn’t have Sutter’s eyes, but he had…something. Some way of reading my body’s responses to his questions. About my feelings. About my dreams, and no way was I telling him about those. So I just stopped answering any of the questions. Eventually, they stopped scheduling me for his sessions. Mission accomplished.
“You’ll think it’s stupid, Tate.”
“Try me.”
“Fine. It’s just…if I was home with Deb on New Year’s Eve, I know exactly what we’d be doing. Same thing we’ve done the past three years. Billboard Top 100 Countdown. It was probably even going to be on MTV this year. We’d listen tonight and record it on the Walkmans so we could listen again later. And we’d write each song and artist in a special spiral notebook and compare them to our predictions.”
“You like music, then?”
I give him a well, duh look. “Everybody likes some sort of music. But that’s not the only thing. Whoever gets the most predictions right takes half the loser’s Christmas cash. Deb has won each year…although she never takes my money.”
“Then what’s the point of winning?” Tate asks.
“Exactly! If I win, you better believe I’m making her pay up. And this year, I would’ve won. I was tracking Billboard each week right up until the accident. I’d have mopped the floor with her.”
He laughs. “Okay, this is probably going to piss you off because I know you don’t think of him as your father, but that’s one hundred percent Saul Rand. The man would bet on anything…and he didn’t like to lose.”
This is the second time Tate has said I remind him of this Saul person, and I narrow my eyes, because yes, it does piss me off. It seems disloyal to even think about him, like I’ll jinx any chance I have of getting my real dad back if I learn more about this other father. But there’s also a slightly sad note to Tate’s voice, and it occurs to me that he probably misses Saul. Maybe he needs to talk about him?
“You knew Saul pretty well, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah,” he says. “He was my roommate for a couple of years, around the time I started field training. Before he took up with Kathy. All the historians were supposed to serve as a mentor for a first-year historian from a later cadre. Usually people do it a year or so after they go active, but Saul either put it off or Angelo forgot to assign him. So he got stuck with me. But we hit it off pretty well, despite the age difference.”
“Was he…nice?”
“Um…” Tate considers it for a moment. “No. At least, not in the conventional sense of the word. Saul could walk into a room and manage to whizz half the people off before he finished his first drink. He was definitely a character. Smart. Too smart, maybe. But…he was good to his friends. Helped me out of a tough situation once.”
I want to ask about that, but Tate’s face clouds over, so I don’t press the point. We walk along in silence for a few minutes. He seems to be lost in his own thoughts, not really paying attention to the pace. My right leg, the one that got the worst of the whole shattering business, starts to twinge. I’ve walked twice this far in my physical therapy sessions, but the ground here isn’t as even. And Tate’s legs are like forty feet long, so I’m taking two steps to his one.
“Is it far?” I ask him.
“Just a few…blocks…” He stops and looks at me. “I’m such an idiot. Do you need a lift?”
Is he asking whether he should call some version of a future cab or offering to give me a piggyback ride? I feel myself blushing just thinking about the last option. Maybe he’d sweep me up in those arms like the guy on the front of that Wicked Loving Lies book I swiped out of Mother’s desk drawer last year…
“God, Pru! You’re all flushed.”
Of course, that makes the situation even worse. “No. I’m okay. Just…maybe we could stop for a minute or two?”
“Sure! Absolutely. No problem.” He scans around until he locates an unoccupied bench in the park across the street. Then he reaches down, pulls me against him and upward with one arm, to the point where my legs are barely touching the ground.
“No, Tate! I can walk…really.”
Tate doesn’t listen, and I’m wishing I hadn’t said anything, just kept going. But…I’m also kind of happy that he doesn’t move away from me when we reach the bench. He leaves his arm around me, giving me a slightly worried smile.
“Better?”
I nod, rubbing my right knee. “Just needed a little break. You have long legs…it’s hard to keep up.”
“Sorry. We were talking and then…I wasn’t really thinking. But it’s not my fault you’re a short stack,” he teases. “That’s clearly your mom’s fault. I think Kathy was even shorter than you.”
“She is. You knew her pretty well, too, didn’t you?”
I want to ask whether he really thinks she did it. But I know he thinks she did it. Everyone here does, and it’s hard to blame them, given the evidence. I have to admit there’s still a little part of me that has a tough time buying it, though. Mother is a pain in the ass and a major thorn in my side. I don’t like her, but I can’t imagine her killing anyone.
“I would have said that I knew her about as well as I knew anyone at CHRONOS, aside from Saul and the guys I roomed with when I was taking classes. Kathy and I were a few years apart, but we had three, maybe four, classes together. She was sharp. Pretty. High strung. Jealous as h
ell when it came to Saul’s time.” He glances across the street, his eyes settling again on the large white structure a few blocks down. “But if someone had asked me to bet on a building Kathy would blow up, I’d have ranked the OC a million times higher than CHRONOS HQ.”
It seems almost like a change of topic…going from her being jealous to talking about the OC, but they must be connected. “Was Saul seeing someone else…some girl who lived there?”
“More likely four or five of them,” Tate says, chuckling. “Saul wasn’t exactly…monogamous. I know several girls who tried to warn Kathy, and she turned on every one of them. But the girls weren’t the reason she was jealous of the OC—or at least not the main reason. It was Campbell.”
“Really?”
Tate catches my expression and laughs. “Not that way. Saul prefers women, generally, although…” He doesn’t finish whatever he was about to say, even though I make a little gimme gesture with my hands.
“Nah. He’s your father and…I think he was joking.”
“He made a pass at you?”
“No! It’s just…there’s this test we all have to do where we go back in time and encounter an earlier version of ourselves, okay? It’s a bitch. I had a headache for a week. Saul, on the other hand, said he had no trouble at all, and was hoping he could borrow a key and do it again. Said he wouldn’t mind a little…um…private time with himself.”
“Ewww.”
“Yeah. But the really ewww part is that I think he was serious. I mean, not about borrowing a key for that, because the only way we could jump was with the rest of the cohort. But about being attracted to himself.” He chuckles when I wrinkle my nose. “See. I told you that you didn’t want me to finish it.”
“It’s okay. He’s not my dad. I don’t care what you say about him. And there’s a word for that, right? Narcissism. We learned all about it in psych class.”
“Yes. Saul is a classic narcissist, but…like I said, he could be good to his friends.”
“And this Campbell guy was his friend?”
“That’s an excellent question. I don’t think friend is the right word, but Saul was definitely obsessed with Campbell. He spent more of his time figuring out ways to annoy that old man than he did on his job. They’d have these mental jousting matches that lasted weeks about some stupid point in history. Everything else, even your mother, came second to proving Morgen wrong. He was either madly in love with the guy or he hated him. Maybe both. Even after he moved in with your mom, he spent most of his spare time at the Club, and it pissed Kathy off.”
