by Walker, Rysa
Even if I wanted to, I’m not sure I could back out now. You can’t exactly weasel your way around a commitment when your face is on the stained-glass windows.
But here’s the cool part. Cyrist International is doing so much good. Programs for education, to help the poor, feed the hungry, improve the environment. I’ve never been a fan of the whole cheery when-life-gives-you-lemons philosophy, but we’ve got a great big pitcher of lemonade now. And whether it’s good or bad, I don’t know any way to put the juice back into those lemons.
The next tap on the door isn’t Saul. It’s the Rat Bastard. “Wakey, wakey. I have a big surprise.”
If I ever get my hands on a weapon again, I’ll have a big surprise for you, too.
But I sit up and try to keep my expression pleasant. Saul says I don’t have to like Simon. I don’t even get the sense that Saul really likes him. But I do have to work with him. We have to coexist.
Simon pulls someone forward, a boy in his early teens. He’s tall and lanky, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes that dart around the room.
“Patrick, meet Sister Prudence.”
The kid is frightened, but trying not to show it. His clothing looks handwoven—a belted tunic over tightfitting pants and leather shoes. There’s something vaguely familiar about his face that I can’t place.
Simon stands there next to the boy, grinning, almost quivering with anticipation, like a dog expecting a treat. He’s clearly waiting for me to figure something out.
After a moment, Patrick asks Simon a question. I’m not sure what language he’s speaking. Simon responds, using a few foreign words mixed in with a bit of English. Judging from the kid’s expression, it didn’t really answer his question.
Simon looks back at me. “Oh, come on! Doesn’t he look anything like his daddy?”
Does he mean Saul? Is this some half-brother they’ve dredged up?
And then the boy turns slightly to one side. His nose is a bit too large for his thin face, and there’s a familiar little hook near the top.
Simon is already blurting out his next clue, about finding the kid in a Viking village. But I already know the boy is Tate’s.
Tate’s and Maya’s.
So yeah, maybe Tate didn’t tell me everything.
What’s really bothering me, however, is the realization that the Rat Bastard has that very same nose.
THE FARM
ESTERO, FLORIDA
Day 121—May 27, 1908, 2:24 p.m.
June also has the nose. Otherwise, she looks a bit like me, or like I’ll probably look when I’m older. Assuming I never wear makeup or color my hair. And after seeing June, I’ve decided I’ll be doing both.
She’s nice, though. Smart. Seems to know her stuff, which is probably a good thing, since she’s my doctor.
“Well, you pass inspection, Pru. I’d give anything for five minutes inside the medical facility that patched you up.”
I’ve already explained the process to her in detail. She seems especially interested in the tub of goo at CHRONOS med, and a little disappointed that I didn’t ask more questions of Coralys and the rest of my med team.
“So, is that it?” I ask.
“Yes. Now I’m going to go in there once again and try to explain simple biology to Simon.”
“Good luck with that.”
She grabs a computer tablet from the counter, and says, “Pamphlet on egg donation.” When the document pops up on the screen, I follow her back into the waiting area, where Simon is sitting. I don’t know which I loathe more, him or the field extender he’s holding.
“Okay, Simon.” June hands him the tablet. “Full details are here, because I know you well enough to know you’re not going to take my word for it. But first, let’s go for a little stroll.”
“I’m afraid I need to take a rain check on the walk, June. I don’t have all morning. Places to be…”
“It won’t take long,” June says, in a tone that suggests she isn’t taking no for an answer.
We step outside and she pushes a button near the clinic door. The screen just above the button switches from The Doctor is In to The Doctor is Out.
The day is warm and humid. June sniffs the air as we walk past a grove of trees, and then pauses. “Mmm. The mangos are finally ripe.” She pulls two of them and hands them to me.
“One is for you. Take the other one back for Brother Cyrus.”
Simon huffs. I don’t know if he’s objecting to the leisurely pace or the fact that she didn’t pick one for him.
We move on toward the building on the other side of the grove. It looks like a school. There’s a swing set, a tall metal slide, and a strange-looking round disk suspended by metal wires from a tall pole. It seems to be a type of group swing. Three of the older kids are standing on the planks that make up the lower circle and holding on to the wires, leaning back and forth to make the thing move from side to side.
The children in the play area range in age from about two to nine. Three women are seated on a bench near the building, watching them. Two hold infants, and a few older babies are crawling on the grass nearby.
June waves to the women, and then leans back against the gate. “Okay. Now that we have our visual aid in place, I’ll start the lesson. Here’s the short, succinct version. Some things can’t be accelerated even when you have a CHRONOS key. Prudence here is currently, based on our best guess, sixteen years and fifty-six days old. My records indicate that she’ll conceive when she’s seventeen years, two hundred and four days. Earlier than I would have recommended, but that decision was before my time. The egg donor process will take place when she is twenty years, eighty days.”
“Yes,” Simon says. “I get when it happened in the past. What I’m saying is start it now, and we save some time. And maybe we just skip the whole pregnancy thing. Pru hated it, and Brother Cyrus kind of likes the whole virgin birth motif.”
June flashes me a look that makes it clear she knows that ship has sailed, but she doesn’t share that info with Simon. “Start it now and we don’t get the same batch of eggs, Simon. We might get the same sperm, assuming that nothing changes about the time of her…encounter with the male donor.”
“Yeah, June. We considered that. Brother Cyrus says he’s fine with that possibility, and I agree. We might get a few extra jumpers. No offense, but the current batch of kids in this nursery isn’t going to knock his socks off in that regard when they reach testing age. There are what, maybe seven who’ll have any ability at all. Let’s roll the dice again and see if Pru can produce a better batch.”
“That’s certainly an option.” June smiles, but it’s the smile of someone watching her opponent walk into a carefully baited trap. She nods toward the children running around. “Some of these kids are from the Koreshan Unity crowd, but there are nine or ten of yours in the mix, Pru.”
I watch them run around, and I can’t help but smile. I like little kids. They’re honest. They say what they think until they get civilized, and taught manners, and all of the stupid things their parents want them to believe. I feel a little pang, wondering exactly what these kids are being taught.
“Do they…have families?” I ask her. “Do they go home when school is over or…”
“This is their family,” June says. “Lots of kids to play with. Lots of parents who love them. Hold on…yeah. There.” She points to the far corner, near the back gate. “See that little kid over there on the teeter-totter? The one at the bottom. I’m not positive, but I think she’s me. And you should look around a bit, Simon, because according to my records, one of the others is you.”
Simon’s smirk fades.
“So…you still want to roll the dice again?” June claps him on the shoulder once and starts walking back to the clinic.
Simon stays behind, still watching the kids on the playground, probably trying to figure out which one will grow up to be the Rat Bastard.
I’d rather walk with June than him, so I jog a bit to catch up. She’s pulled
another mango from the tree and bites into it, skin and all.
“Don’t feel sorry for those kids,” she says between bites. “They do okay. Every one of their mothers was honored to carry the child to term, and the men and women who live here are honored to raise them so that they might carry on the message of Brother Cyrus. They are loved. They are cherished. It may not be the same kind of family you grew up in, but it works.”
The Brother Cyrus talk is beginning to grate. I have to remind myself that June grew up in this place. She’s been drinking the Kool-Aid since she was born. I feel guilty that they’ve accepted a lie, but then I remember all of the progress Saul showed me. All of the good that Cyrist International is doing in the future. And June probably wouldn’t believe me if I told her the truth, anyway.
When we arrive back at the clinic, the sign has changed. Now, it reads The Doctor is In. June curses under her breath. Then she pulls out a CHRONOS key and starts rummaging through the stable points.
“What’s wrong?”
“Need to find a time when the clinic is empty.”
“Who’s in there?”
She arches an eyebrow. “Me. I’m in there. That’s what the sign is for. We keep a calendar, too, but it’s easy to get mixed up. This keeps me from crossing my own path too often. And if I do see her, we don’t speak…well, occasionally we have to talk briefly. But I never talk to the ones who are a lot older or a lot younger. That’s asking for trouble. Your brain will end up mush. I’d tell you to avoid it, too, but I already know you don’t listen. Or they don’t let you listen, and I guess that amounts to the same thing.”
7
THE FARM
ESTERO, FLORIDA
Day 267—May 27, 2030
When I hear the rustling noise in the corner, I don’t open my eyes. I just sneak my hand slowly toward the nightstand to grab my weapon. Gizmo, who you’d think would be an early alarm system considering the noise he makes during the day, just snorts and presses his cold puppy nose against my shoulder.
This is the third night in a row the woman has paid me a visit.
The first night, I assumed that this was simply my intermittently scheduled nightmare—just older and unusually vivid. I screamed, which finally woke up Gizmo. By then, she was gone. I might have convinced myself it really was the nightmare, except…it wasn’t like I was waking up from a dream. And she wasn’t exactly like me, the way she always is in the nightmare. She wasn’t wearing that same outfit. She was older. Thinner. And she didn’t tumble down into some dream version of that hole in the floor at CHRONOS. She disappeared using a key.
The next night, when I opened my eyes once again to see this older version of me sitting in the chair near my window, watching me, I hurled the first thing I could find—the hand lotion I keep on the nightstand—straight at her head. She stepped back and it hit her in the chest. Then she scooped it off the floor and hurled it right back at me.
Apparently my aim has improved with age, or maybe she was just more awake, because the tube connected right between my eyes. She gave me a satisfied little smile right before blinking out again.
Gizmo didn’t even budge that time until I plopped back onto my pillow. In retrospect, the lotion was a piss-poor weapon. Only a tiny red spot remained on my forehead when I looked in the mirror the next morning.
Tonight, however, I’m prepared. I know exactly where the stone mortar is, because I stubbed a cigarette out inside of it just before falling asleep. It was the closest thing to a decent weapon I could find in this place, although I suspect the Rat Bastard has a sizable arsenal stashed somewhere. I know for certain he still has Tate’s masher-basher.
But when my hand reaches the nightstand, the mortar is gone. I open my eyes slightly, peering through my lashes to see if I’ve just missed it, but no. It’s gone.
When I flip over onto my back, I draw my arms around my head instinctively, certain that I’ll see the heavy stone bowl crashing down toward me. Instead, I see only my room, dark except for a faint lime-green glow near the window.
Gizmo finally stirs when I sit up, crawling out from under the quilt and onto my lap, where he’ll fit for another month, tops. His head cocks to one side for a moment, and he snarls, the way he always does when someone has a CHRONOS key out in the open. But he doesn’t bark at her, which is weird. June came into my room last month when I had the flu, just to check my temperature, and Gizmo raised holy hell.
The woman in the chair raises her hands, palms up. She has a CHRONOS key strapped to her left arm. “No jagged rock,” she says, glancing at each of her hands in turn. “I’m unarmed, with the exception of your little bowl here.”
She runs her forefinger around the edge as she gives me a long, calculating look. “You needn’t worry. I’m not the girl you sent hurtling to her death in the ruins of CHRONOS. You were right to get rid of that one. I don’t know if she was a mistake, but she was most definitely an extra. She wasn’t supposed to exist. But I’m just you. Later-You.”
I’m pretty sure she’s telling the truth. I’m still pissed, however, both because she snagged my weapon and because she scared me. So I say, “Yeah? Prove it.”
“Hmmm. Shall I tell you all about Tate’s birthmark? Or maybe that little scar just behind his knee and the way he shivers when—”
“Stop.” Her words stir up an immense feeling of homesickness, not for my own time and place, but for Tate.
Saul kept his promise. He allowed me a one-week trip back to 2306, about a month after we relocated here to the Farm. He said he trusted me to return.
Simon apparently did not share that sentiment. He handed me another picture of Deborah right before I left. It was taken in 1999. She’s walking along a sidewalk with some guy, and she’s pregnant. The city doesn’t look like DC, but I don’t ask Simon for details anymore. He gives me a new photo every few weeks. He always gives one to Saul, too. Saul smiles and thanks him, then attaches it to the board in the kitchen with all of the others.
I see that board every day. It looks very out of place in the ultramodern kitchen. It’s just a plain corkboard, exactly like the one in our kitchen back in 1984. For all I know, Simon could have broken in and swiped it.
At first, I thought Saul was too naive to understand that Simon intends these pictures as a threat. But then I realized they really aren’t a threat to Saul. Only to me. For me, they are a concrete reminder of why I’d better behave. Of why I’d better come back.
I’m sure Simon has the coordinates from Campbell’s key. He could follow me if he wanted to. I know he’s been to 2306, because he tacked a souvenir from the 2306 World Series to that same kitchen bulletin board. Maybe he was there keeping an eye on me, but if so, I wasn’t able to spot him.
And they have another method of keeping tabs on me. June took a blood sample before I left, and one when I returned. She ran those samples through a filter hooked up to one of the computers in the clinic. It spat out a whole list of results, including the fact that I overstayed by four days. It’s not precise—I’m pretty sure I was more like seven days late—but the Rat Bastard latched on to my failure to color between the lines, and Saul freakin’ grounded me. Again.
I’m under a key this time, but they’ve stripped every single stable point. I can set a local point here at the Farm and change the date, but there are always people around here to tattle if I try to leave the premises, no matter when I jump to.
I was late coming back mostly because Tate got cold feet after we snagged the spare medallions from a back room in the CHRONOS archives. We could still put them back, Tate said. I could stay there with him, and we’d work at the museum. He couldn’t shake the feeling that handing the keys over to Saul before we knew more might only make things worse.
Everything Tate said was tempting. He was so convincing. He was convincing several times for the last five nights I was there. Convincing a few afternoons and early mornings, too. All of his qualms about me being too young and not ready vanished.
But a
s I lay there in his arms, I knew deep down that Tate wouldn’t be the same person after a few years of answering stupid questions, like whether the Vikings were the ones who wore kilts. And I kept thinking of the picture of Deborah that Saul tacked to the bulletin board. How long before they figured out I wasn’t coming back? How long before Simon came hunting me? Maybe he was already watching us?
My dad paid a high price for my mistakes. I won’t let Deb pay, too.
In the end, I managed to convince Tate that Cyrist International is a good thing. That Saul really is trying to fix the problems my mom created. That maybe we can get everything back to how it was without triggering some stupid conundrum along the way.
And then we spent that last night convincing each other that we weren’t making a huge mistake.
Those days and nights with Tate were private. I don’t like the fact that the woman sitting in my chair knows anything about them. They’re my memories. And the fact that she’s an older version of me doesn’t make me feel any better about having to share those memories with her.
“Why are you here?” I ask. “What do you want?”
“Ooh, no chitchat for you. Straight to business. Okay, then.”
Older-Me comes over to sit on the edge of the bed and tosses me the mortar. I catch it, but one of the cigarette butts bounces out onto the quilt. Gizmo sniffs at it, and then ducks back behind me. The woman’s eyes follow him. They seem sad. Confused.
She shakes her head briskly and looks back up at me. “You shouldn't smoke in bed. In fact, you shouldn't smoke at all.”
Her voice is a lot like mine, although I hope to God I don’t sound that preachy. That part is more like Mother.
