I spot a small pile of garbage off to one side. I take slow, plodding steps toward it. “Good work, Caleb,” my brain is telling me. Since there’s no more pie left in the tin, then it can be only one thing: garbage. Proud of my logic, I set the pie tin on top of the garbage. The perfect solution to my problem.
Something is niggling at me: the beginnings of a thought. Trying to push aside my perfect solution. I mustn’t let it.
There’s no stopping it, though; the thought keeps buzzing around in my brain like a moth near a flame. There is something else I must do. What is it?
Think! But I can’t. It’s so hard.
I must leave this place.
But if that’s the thought, it makes no sense at all. Why should I leave? Instead, I sit down in the rain. Yes, it’s much better to sit here and watch the raindrops fall.
Something is going plink, plink. The sound is like music. I must find out what’s making such beautiful music.
Again. Plink. Plink.
Looking to my left I see a pie tin atop a small pile of garbage. That’s where the wonderful music is coming from. Plink, plink go the raindrops into the tin. Filling it up.
Another thought breaks through, telling me to touch my wrist.
Such silliness.
I would much rather continue listening to the rain music.
But the thought keeps coming back, pestering me.
All right, I will do what the thought says. But only so that I can go back to watching the pretty raindrops and listening to the rain music. My fingers reach up and tap lightly at my wrist in time with the raindrops.
There. Done. Now I can go back to my rain music. But what happened to it? I listen hard, but the music is only faint now. Maybe if I bring the pie tin closer to me. Yes, that’s the answer.
I reach out my hand to the pie tin and, as I do, I feel something happening to me. Disturbing my perfect peace. It feels as if my entire body is vibrating.
Just before I slip away, just before I leave 1871, I curl my fingers around the pie tin and slip it under my jacket. Good. Wherever I’m going, at least I’ll have my music with me.
June 24, 2061, 12:02 P.M.
Tribeca, New Beijing (formerly New York City)
I land in the alley beside Headquarters. My body aches all over, I have a horrible headache and I can’t move. Otherwise I feel great. The only thing I can do is wait for the time freeze to melt away and for the time fog to begin to dissolve.
I close my eyes in an effort to ease the throbbing pain in my head, and after a moment, I’m able to move my hands enough to cover my ears against the traffic sounds that feel like arrows piercing my brain.
This must be what a hangover feels like.
Slowly, my thoughts start to make sense. That was close. It was stupid of me to stay in the past that long. And it was stupid of me to hit Blackberry Breath. But he started it.
I stand up slowly. It’s a good thing my patch is preprogrammed to land at home. In my time-fogged state, there’s no way I could have even hit the right century.
Leaving the alley, instead of turning right, toward Headquarters, I turn left. Better to walk off some of the time fog before I face Nassim. As I cross under West Street and head for the Greenway, it begins to rain; not quite the steady downpour that I just left behind in Bridgeport, but I’ll take it anyway.
Some people can’t stand the rain. I’m not one of them. In fact, there are some times, like right now, when rain definitely suits my mood. The fact that I almost botched Operation Fling has left me a jangle of nerves. But it’s not only that. It feels like everything is spinning out of control.
As I continue to walk, some of the power comes back to my legs. Two bicycles pass me, and their tires kick up water, spraying my pants. I’ve got a good view of the Hudson now and, across it, the skyline of Hoboken. The buildings on the New Jersey side look dark and dreary, crowned by a thick canopy of rain clouds.
I think about Zach. Maybe I should just forget about him. His life is none of my business. They say if you save a life, that makes you responsible for it. I don’t believe that. Zach has two parents. He doesn’t need me. But what if Frank tries to snatch him? I can’t let that happen.
I’m still holding the pie tin under my jacket. I take it out and point it toward the Hudson. A good toss would probably make the river. It would be so easy—just bring my arm back and let it fly. I know it would be stupid and that Uncle would seriously punish me for it once he found out. But strangely enough, even knowing all of that, it’s still hard to resist. I remember reading once that people who are afraid of heights can sometimes find themselves drawn like magnets to stand at the edge of a steep cliff. That’s kind of how I’m feeling right now … being pulled to do something totally crazy.
With effort, I slip the tin back under my jacket and keep walking. The rain has let up, but the sky is still blanketed by clouds. As I turn onto Franklin, a gray cat rockets across the street in front of me and scoots underneath a parked rickshaw.
Arriving at Headquarters, I take a deep breath to steady myself. “Four, please, Phoebe.” I can hear the fatigue in my voice.
“Certainly, Your Wetness,” replies Phoebe. “But first take your shoes off and carry them. I just vacuumed.”
Phoebe’s persona is dressed in a low-cut leopard skin leotard. The dark smudges around her eyes match her jet-black Mohawk. A tattoo proclaiming DEATH LIVES is etched on her right biceps.
“There. Can I go up now?” I ask, after I’ve removed my shoes.
“Certainly. But when you get off, I suggest you hold your nose,” she says.
“Why?”
“Because Raoul is cooking tonight … if you can call it that.”
“What’s he—”
“Broccoli,” she says.
“And what else?” I ask.
“There is no what else,” says Phoebe. “Just broccoli.”
I nod. Let the others complain about the meal, or lack of it. I’m not hungry anyway.
I head straight for the dorm. What I really should be doing is turning the pie tin in to Nassim. If I don’t, I’m sure I’ll hear about it. But I’m just not up for it right now.
Thankfully, the room is empty. I flop down on my bunk, pull out my carving and get to work on the area around the eyes. The weight of the knife in my hand feels good and the repeating motion of the blade digging into the driftwood is comforting, almost hypnotic.
“Good evening, people,” says Nassim’s voice over the intercom. “Dinner will be in five minutes. The word for this evening is xiao, translation: ‘the respect that children give to their parents.’ Everyone must use the word in a sentence of their choosing at dinner.”
This is no language lesson. It’s a new form of torture. Since none of us have parents, my guess is that Uncle wants to hear all about how much we respect him. There’s no way I’m going. Abbie probably won’t even notice I’m not there. She’ll be too busy gazing into Frank’s broccoli-colored eyes.
I strike hard with my knife and twist up, the blade flush against the wood. The cautious part of me says to be more gentle so I don’t ruin the carving.
Well, too bad. I strike the wood again and again. Each strike is harder than the one before.
I hate getting up early on nonmission days. But today we’re all going to SoHo for a briefing on Uncle’s latest project, and not showing up isn’t an option. So I’m up, dressed and in the kitchen by ten to seven.
Everyone else is here, jockeying for position around the toaster.
My stomach’s grumbling from missing supper last night, so I feed it an extra bowl of cereal while I wait for the toaster to free up.
“Caleb, where’s the snatch object from Bridgeport?” asks Nassim.
“Oops. Left it in the dorm. Be right back,” I say.
I’m two steps out of the kitchen when he says, “Why didn’t you turn it in yesterday?”
He’s got me there. “Sorry, Nassim,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “It was kind of a
rough day.”
Nassim nods and says, “I’ll be waiting in my office.”
“Okay.” I hurry to the dorm and check under my bunk where I stowed the pie tin. For a panicky moment I can’t feel it. My first thought is, Frank: he must have found it! How stupid could I have been to stash it in such an obvious place? I really should have turned it in yesterday. And then my fingers connect with a cool, rounded edge. Relief washes over me.
I tuck it under my arm and hurry to Nassim’s office.
“Here it …” The words die on my lips. It’s pitch-black and I brace myself.
A blow across my ankles sweeps me off my feet and sends me toppling to the floor. The pie tin goes flying. Lucky for me, flying is what it does best. If it was anything else, I could have been punished for improper care of a snatch object.
Before I can even think of standing, my arms are locked in a vise grip. It’s impossible to do anything but sit there and wait for the clue.
“Six letters. Insurrection,” a husky voice whispers right in my ear.
“Mutiny,” I say without skipping a beat.
The lights come on, and I rub my sore arms. Nassim gives the tin a quick once-over. Then he reaches past me, closes his office door and claps on some classical music. The music thunders and rolls like waves in a stormy sea. It’s really loud, but Nassim doesn’t look in any hurry to lower the volume.
“What’s going on with you, Caleb?” the big man asks. “You don’t seem yourself lately.”
My mouth goes dry as I make the connection between Nassim’s question and the loud music.
I hesitate. I’ve never talked to Nassim about personal stuff. In fact, I’ve never even had a conversation longer than two minutes with him, period. Then I remember him showing me his scars from the turtle bites. I’d like to trust him. I really would. But what if he goes straight to Uncle with what I say? It’s too risky.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He stares at me, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say something. Instead he just nods.
As I make a move to leave, he holds up a hand. “Wait a minute. There’s something I want to show you.”
Nassim reaches inside the top drawer of his desk and fishes out a small bottle. Shaking a tiny silver pill from the bottle he says, “Do you know what this is?”
“No,” I say.
“It’s a memory wipe pill,” he says. “Take two of these and, within a couple of minutes, you won’t remember anything that happened before dinner last night. And I mean anything.”
I feel my stomach clench. Why is he showing me this?
He pops the pill back in the bottle and returns it to the drawer. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I get a feeling that there’s a whole other side to Nassim that I don’t know anything about. Glancing at the framed picture on his desk, I wonder how long it’s been since Nassim has seen his own father.
“We’re done here, Caleb. I’ll write up the snatch. Please join the others. We’ll be leaving for the Compound in five minutes.” His voice is flat, expressionless.
I nod and head for the door. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t turn around.
June 25, 2061, 7:37 A.M.
The Compound—Timeless Treasures Training Facility
SoHo, New Beijing (formerly New York City)
Although I’ve heard Uncle mention the Compound, this is my first visit. Following the others up the front steps, my immediate reaction is that this place will never make it into any New Beijing guidebook. The windows have broken panes, the wooden stairs are cracked and there’s graffiti on the brickwork. And that’s just on the outside.
Like me, Raoul, Lydia and Abbie are staring wide-eyed. Frank, however, doesn’t seem affected, which I take as a sign that he’s been here before, maybe more than once.
Gazing at the building, I’m guessing that, even with all its faults, the place cost Uncle a pretty penny. After all, this is SoHo, not Queens.
I follow the others inside. According to Nassim, a hundred years ago the building was a shoe factory. But according to my nose, it could easily have been yesterday. There’s a big-time smell of leather in a huge room with a gray concrete floor and stout wooden beams crisscrossing a high ceiling. I even see a couple of dusty iron contraptions that I bet were used for making shoes, tucked away in one corner.
We’re all tiptoeing around as if we’re a tour group visiting a church. Nassim hustles us across the factory floor to a small room. As soon as I enter, I get a strong whiff of “eau de foot.” Maybe this is where they stored the returns. Or maybe the smell is coming from Raoul, who’s standing next to me with one foot half out of his shoe.
The room is bare except for a couple of benches and a large window looking out over the factory floor.
I try to mindpatch something to Abbie, but my access is denied. I can’t believe it. She’s blocking me! She’s never done that before. Ever.
I’m so focused on Abbie’s snub that I jump when Uncle enters the room.
“Good morning, people. I’m so glad that you could all join me,” he says.
As if we had a choice.
It’s clear that Uncle’s been out shopping. His new outfit, a blue and red pinstriped hanfu with matching sandals, screams Wall Street meets the Tang dynasty. But if there’s anyone who can pull it off, it’s Uncle. As always, his sword is tucked into his belt.
“For those of you who have not been here before, this building is the new Timeless Treasures training facility,” he says.
I stifle a yawn and sneak a glance at the others. Raoul is looking particularly nervous. Lydia is gazing at her reflection in the glass, and Frank looks bored. I catch Abbie’s eye for a second before she glances away.
“All the recruits live and train here,” continues Uncle. “This is the Viewing Room. It looks out over the Yard, which is the name I’ve given to the large factory floor that you can see out this window. That is where the bulk of the training takes place: classes on conventional thievery, pickpocketing, stealth and the like. The recruits also learn about different cultures and periods from history through age-appropriate educational holos. But it’s not all about work. We also have an array of sports equipment and games for fun and recreation as well as dress-up days when the recruits can come as their favorite historical figure.”
Fun and recreation. Dress-up days. Memories of my own training days bubble to the surface. Those were good times. I remember soccer games where Uncle played goalie. And I also remember some of my costumes, especially the big hat and long blue and red coat I wore when I was Napoleon. Boy, did Uncle clap when he saw me in that one. These kids have no idea what’s in store for them when they get to be my age. I suppose that’s a good thing, the not knowing. At least they can enjoy what they have now.
“There is a cafeteria/dining hall on the second level,” continues Uncle, “and the third and fourth levels house the recruits’ sleeping quarters. The uppermost floor, five, is where my office is. Any questions so far?”
Lydia’s hand shoots up. No surprise there. In Lydia’s world, the next best thing to looking at herself is hearing herself talk.
“Yes, Lydia?” says Uncle.
“Where does that door lead to?” She’s pointing to a set of copper-colored double doors on the far side of the factory floor.
“Very perceptive,” Uncle answers. “I did not mention those doors, did I? They house an old-fashioned elevator. Back in the days when this was a shoe factory, the elevator was used to transport finished product from the first floor to the top floor where the shoes were boxed and stored until shipping orders were received. The lift only stops on the first and fifth floors. It’s not nearly as swift as the newer models, but speed isn’t everything is it?”
No matter how slowly it goes, any elevator that goes straight to Uncle’s office can’t be good news for the recruits.
“If there are no other questions, let us get on with the show,” says Uncle.
He sure has that right. This is one big show. And judgi
ng by the gleam in his eye, it looks like the curtain is about to rise.
“Behold, people,” he announces, “the next generation of time snatchers!”
We all watch through the window as children stream into the Yard, trailed by five men. Adults? Up until now, apart from Uncle and Nassim, there’s never been anyone over thirteen years old working at Timeless Treasures. I didn’t think Uncle trusted adults enough to hire them as trainers. I guess I was wrong.
The children, about two dozen of them by my count, are dressed in bright T-shirts, shorts and spanking new running shoes. Even through the glass, I can hear laughter and shouting—the same noises you would expect to hear at any gathering of five and six-year-olds. They immediately make a beeline for the hockey sticks and tennis balls that have been laid out for them.
I can’t help but stare. Where did they all come from?
Abbie’s got a neutral expression on her face, and Raoul is his usual pale self. But Frank has me worried. He’s standing closest to Uncle and looking extremely smug.
“The children you see have been invited here from centuries past as part of a new project that I call Project Metamorphosis,” says Uncle. “For those of you who are not familiar with the term ‘metamorphosis,’ let me enlighten you. Metamorphosis is commonly used to describe a process involving a noticeable and sudden change in an animal’s body structure. The animal will typically transform into something completely unrecognizable. In the case of the butterfly, the process begins with the egg, then goes on to the larva, pupa and then, finally, the butterfly.
“My friends,” he continues, “just as it is with the butterfly, so it is with Timeless Treasures. The time is now for our metamorphosis.”
He pauses for a moment and adjusts his hanfu. My eyes are drawn to the sword tucked inside his belt. The blade looks as sharp as ever.
“There will be two phases to Project Metamorphosis,” Uncle says. “Phase One will be collection. We will be recruiting children from different cultures and centuries to join us. Some but not all of these children will be orphans. After all, why should children from traditional families be denied the same opportunity to enrich their lives?”
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