Lightning Rider (Lightning Rider Alterations)

by Jen Greyson

  “Seems like a pretty stupid glitch.”

  “Fortunately it’s not one that concerns you. However, if the situation warrants, there are ways to erase residue in an instant.”

  Papi clears his throat and angles his body between me and Ilif. “You said the alterations we make aren’t changes. How so?”

  Ilif smiles condescendingly, as if pleased to impart his vast knowledge on our meager brains. “Let me explain. Alterations are changes, but minor ones—a tailor fixing a shirt that doesn’t fit. It’s still a shirt, but now it fits like an expensive, handcrafted piece. The alterations your family can make—diverting a train wreck, putting out a fire before it rages out of control—affect a moment in time. Sometimes the people you save play a small role in life, other times they conduct a symphony of impact. But your participation is only to see them on to tomorrow.”

  Or take away all of their tomorrows.

  “So our alterations are always about saving someone? Preventing their death?”

  His reaction is nearly imperceptible. A curl of his upper lip, the flex of his jaw. “Why do you ask?”

  I shrug and try to keep it light. “Just wondered.”

  He straightens and examines his nails. “There have been a handful of occasions where the success of an alteration required the cessation of life.”

  A simple “no” would have been fine. I’m going to have to go back through that book with a magnifying glass and find what he’s hiding. For now, I need him to think his answer appeased me. “Oh.”

  He studies me for a moment, then seems satisfied that I’m not asking about anything specific. Resituating himself, he sighs. “I believe one day a rider will alter a pivotal path, the path of someone who can connect all those independent bright spots of genius. A person with the capacity to bring the world together. A uniting force . . .” He looks as if he already has a particular someone in mind.

  “You think we’re the uniting force?” Papi asks.

  “No. God, no.”

  Relief washes over me. I’m capped out on the responsibility front.

  “You merely save them,” he says.

  I catch enough of the news to know when bright lights get extinguished at the top of their game, when a senseless death could have been prevented . . . but I’m not sure I want to be responsible for saving—or killing—one of those.

  “Does it really make a difference?” Papi asks as he sets a stool in front of me and reaches around the counter for the other two.

  With a delicate precision that doesn’t wrinkle his suit, Ilif situates himself on the stool and starts again. “The power you have is vast. Every attempt I’ve made to recreate what you do has failed. You are guided by something far bigger than what science can explain or understand. Sometimes it takes me generations to realize the true impact of a single alteration.” He extends his hand. “In one instance, your great-great-grandfather emptied a stagnant pool of water and saved a family from malaria. Nelson Mandela was born to that family seven generations later.

  “Time is fluid. Millions of choices happen every second. Affecting even one of them can impact the lives of billions for generations. I know this seems vague, and I can bring charts and graphs on my next trip, but for now, please believe this is not something to be taken lightly. I do not understand why your family alone possesses this skill or why it passes only to the men. I do not know if there’s an ultimate moment when everything is righted and your services are no longer needed. All I know is I’ve watched it for centuries, and there are a few alterations I . . . anticipate. Until then, we all have roles to play.”

  “But it doesn’t only pass to the men,” I say.

  “Yes. It does,” Ilif answers.

  I’m on the verge of sinking to a “Yuh-huh”–“Nuh-uh” conversation, but I have a feeling Ilif could make me revert to a third grader and we’d end up wrestling on the ground.

  Papi rubs my arm, making me bristle, but I hold my tongue. While I seethe, I concede that keeping Ilif in the dark about my own alteration might not be a bad thing.

  “Throughout history, great men have been stifled by a single item.” Pausing for dramatic effect, Ilif rubs the outer corner of his left eye.

  I curl my hands into fists and suppress the urge to fling myself at him and pound the answers from his twisted little mouth.

  “Money,” he says at last. “Revolutions have been thwarted, brilliant scientists have been denied funding, life-changing ideas have died on the vine due to lack of money. Rich, powerful men control everything.”

  “Poor people can have global impact, too,” I say. Papi and I both built businesses from nothing . . . not exactly a global impact, but I’ll be damned if I let him get away with the “rich men” statement.

  “Not without help along the way. A willing ear, a pro bono effort, a lucky strike.”

  “Or a time traveler,” Papi interjects, snapping his fingers.

  “No,” Ilif says. “A lightning rider.”

  I think about Penya and Constantine. “So are we supposed to help people get rich or start wars? I don’t get it.”

  He smiles, and it’s the most genuine I’ve ever seen him look. “You’re only seeing it from your very limited perspective of time.”

  I raise an eyebrow. Well, duh. I bite my tongue and wave him to continue.

  “The thirty-thousand foot view is remarkably different.”

  Papi’s brow creases. “Well who gets that view?”

  “It happens,” Ilif says, by way of nonexplanation. Sometimes asking him questions isn’t worth the wasted breath.

  “Stay with me, as difficult as it may be. Assume there is a scientist who’s found the cure for cancer. Big Pharma will never allow him to receive the funding needed to complete trials and bring the cure to market, because they make more money treating cancer than they ever could curing it. What if a rider could create an alteration years earlier—limiting the power of pharmaceutical companies—one that could pave the way for the cancer cure to be realized?”

  “Seems like riding just got more dangerous,” Papi says. “If we’re responsible for creating and destroying billions of dollars of revenue with a single alteration, wouldn’t people want to stop us?”

  “Certainly. But you’re forgetting that if the event never happened, they didn’t have the billions to lose in the first place.”

  I lift my hand to my temple. “This is making my head hurt.”

  “All reasons why I’m necessary.”

  “What’s in it for you?” I ask. “You’re just a do-gooder by nature?”

  He crosses his legs and clasps his hands together over his knee. “I’m a scientist. History is ripe with the corpses of geniuses, men who lost their life’s work to an accountant’s or rich man’s whimsy. Every time an alteration affects a scientific endeavor, I feel we’re making contributions to mankind as a whole.”

  “And when it affects a revolution?” I ask, watching his response closely.

  For a flash, his face pinches like I just puked on his shoes, then his features dissolve into his normal, pasty-faced expression of disdain. “Both heroes and fortunes are made and lost in wars. Oppressed people are some of the world’s greatest innovators—they do not lack the need for change, only the funds to see their ideas through to fruition.”

  I’m not sure if that means he’s for them or against them. His answer does, however, give me some insight into why Penya wants to keep him out of our alteration in Spain. If there’s a hero or fortune he wants to affect, war would be an easy catalyst. Not to mention a huge distraction. He could even entice someone to leave before the war gets bad. Or—my thoughts shift into third gear—if there’s a particular Spaniard scientist he wants to bankroll to stardom, a war would be a perfect reason for the guy to seek exile outside the country without much notice. Especially if it’s a scientist working on the fringe of “acceptable” practices. And I get the feeling Ilif’s studies are far outside the fringe. Once relocated to one of Ilif’s labs, the mo
ney behind Ilif could pave the way for whatever science he needed, essentially buying a specific future. I might be way off base, and starting a war seems like an excessive means to an ends, but I wouldn’t put it past him. Either way, his passion is curious, and I wonder how much of this is truth and how much is for our benefit.

  “That doesn’t explain my alteration,” Papi says. “What do mobsters have to do with curing cancer?”

  Ilif forces a laugh. “There are far more implications than science—those are just my personal favorites. As I said, I still don’t understand the origination or decision-making behind the alterations, but I do trust them.

  “The possibilities are truly endless. Imagine what we could create in a world where the energy spent on competition and negativity is instead used for collaboration. Think of some of the top corporations right now. Ponder a future where they joined forces and funds. What if the person who is supposed to be initiating that new direction is already out there, but they’re boarding a flight that will crash and leave no survivors?

  “Now do you understand the importance of this ability? Why I am unwilling to take it lightly?”

  My chest constricts and my hands are clammy. I try to wrap my brain around it, but he’s not through.

  “Those people.” He stands and takes a deep breath. Once he’s jammed his passion back inside and composed himself, he continues, his voice normal and robotic. “Those are the alterations that count. Which is why I believe lightning riders are drawn to certain individuals, not entire situations.”

  I jump up, overcome by the rah-rah speech. “Then teach me.”

  He rears back like I struck him. “Did you not hear anything I said? This is to be taken seriously, not tossed away with some untrained female.”

  Raw anger at the injustice coats every single speck of promise that glimmered from his speech, and I clamp my jaw until my teeth ache.

  Papi clears his throat and steps between us, stroking my back and leading me away. “Okay, I think what Ilif meant was—”

  “Exactly what I said.”

  Papi turns me toward the sink, and I shake with anger. He flips the tap and fills a glass, then forces me to take a drink. Why isn’t he standing up for me?

  I hand the glass back and he sets it next to the sink. “You okay?”

  Am I? Drawing a deep breath, I nod and stare small, pointy daggers at Ilif’s back. This isn’t about him. This is about focusing on why I came home, why I lured Ilif into answering questions I knew might offend me. He caught me off guard, that’s all. I didn’t expect him to give a big inspirational speech and then close back down into an unemotional jackass.

  Too bad. I could get on board with the passionate Ilif . . . but this one?

  He flicks an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve.

  Not so much.

  “I’m okay,” I whisper, not sure if I mean to reassure Papi or me. The enormity of the situation weighs on my body, bowing me forward until I’m crushed by everything I’ve tried to ignore. Everything Constantine and Penya have been telling me. But Ilif may have just given me the insight I needed. How could I walk away after hearing that?

  With a comforting pat on my shoulder that strengthens my resolve, Papi brushes past me. Next to Ilif, he’s lean and light, but tonight his vibrant energy is waning. Probably because he’s being sucked into the black hole of ass beside him. I study Ilif. Would he choose to help me if he knew what I was being tasked with, what I’m supposedly destined to craft? Would he train me then?

  I tip my face to the ceiling. It doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to tell him. I fell for his dynamo speech, opened myself up for the rejection . . . wanted to believe I was the person he was talking about. I still might be, but he’ll never see it. This isn’t new territory. I’ve been fighting for my spot my entire life.

  No reason riding should be any different.

  Papi straightens. “Well, on that note . . .”

  I shove my own problems away and touch his arm. He looks haggard, even with his young, boxer face. “Are you sure? Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No! No, I’ll be fine. I’m sure one more trip is all I need to finish this.” He turns to Ilif. “You’re sure the memory problem won’t affect anything?”

  My ears perk.

  Ilif answers. “I’m trusting your body to make adjustments as needed. Your assessment was correct, and your inexperience is causing your body to overcompensate—it’s the only way for you to pull off a convincing ruse.”

  “Papi, what’s happening? Are you losing your memory?”

  “Only when I’m at the other end.”

  I look at Ilif. “Seriously?”

  Ilif pats my hand like I’m a child, and I force myself not to tear it away.

  “We’ll get it figured out,” he says.

  I glare at the floor, not trusting myself to make eye contact. Don’t screw this up now, Evy.

  Shifting my attention to Papi, I voice my concern. “Papi, I don’t think you should go. What if you don’t remember you’re supposed to come home?”

  “I’ll be linked. No matter what, I’ll be able to track him,” Ilif says.

  “You say that like you didn’t lose his father for six decades,” I snap, instantly regretting it.

  “Different circumstances. I purposely gave him time away. I’ll be watching Vic’s every movement throughout the arc.”

  “Why?” I ask, turning to face Ilif. “Why can’t he just skip this one?”

  “It doesn’t work that way. I already told your father if he doesn’t complete this alteration, he’ll never arc anywhere else.”

  “What if something goes wrong?”

  “It won’t.”

  His arrogance annoys me on a celestial level. “What if he gets hurt?”

  “You’re thinking in linear terms. His existence there may be affected, but not here.”

  “So he’ll just fling home?”

  “Basically.”

  “Basically?” My voice rises.

  Ilif rubs his forehead and his hand trembles. I’m pretty sure he’s about to lose it.

  His hand slides down the side of his face, pulling his skin taut and distorted. “It depends. Usually, when an injury is inflicted, the rider returns to his birth time. Though there have been occasions when that didn’t happen.”

  “What did happen?”

  Even from the short amount of time I’ve been around Ilif, it’s pretty clear he works in absolutes. To hear him use words like basically and usually unnerves me. I’ve come to depend on him for answers, whether I like them or not.

  “I don’t know,” he whispers. “The wound was mortal and the rider never came home.”

  This answer is beyond unsettling, especially considering my current alteration. Mortal wounds are highly likely.

  I suppose it’s not really different in the grand scheme of things—I die, I go away. It never bothered me before. Any biker worth her ride has overcome the fear of death. Can’t straddle a thousand horses and be afraid of mights and possiblies. Death rides bitch every day—you either let him, or he yanks you off.

  But am I ready to deal with Papi’s mortality? I study him, this youthful version of my father. I don’t like that he’s stuck in a loop of danger, and it gives me an idea.

  “I’m going in his place.”

  “No!” Papi lunges forward and grabs my wrist.

  “Over my dead body,” Ilif says, exploding toward me. He recovers and jerks to a stop a foot away, then clears his throat. “It won’t work. You can’t intercept someone else’s alteration.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We’re done talking about this,” Ilif says.

  “Why don’t you give me a minute with my daughter?” Papi says to Ilif before wrapping an arm around me and leading me into the front room. “Evy, I have to agree,” he whispers. “I could never let you do that. There’s no way I could stay home knowing you’re in danger. Please don’t ask me to.”

  “I’
m just worried.”

  “I know. But I’ll be fine. Ilif’s been doing this for years and years. There’s no better teacher for me.” He winks and forces a grin. “Remember the dancing? You know I’m a slow learner.”

  I do remember the dancing. Mami made him do it for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary celebration. He was awful. It took him months to find any rhythm.

  I lean into Papi’s hug. Do I trust Ilif? He’s forcing this on Papi and blatantly ignoring that I’m a willing participant. There’s no way his agenda is really as altruistic as it seems. While I’d like to believe he only wants us to keep the next Martin Luther King Jr. from getting on a runaway train, save the next Stephen Hawking from food poisoning, or get Steve Jobs to the cancer doctor sooner, I’m no fool.

  So far, he’s only been antagonistic toward me.

  For all that he’s a social misfit, I do think he’s smart, so if there were any other option, he’d have found it. In this one thing, I believe him. We are his only option.

  He’ll do everything in his power to keep Papi safe, keep his program going, agenda or no. He’s worked with generations of riders, and this is his business. I’ve got to trust him with Papi.

  But until Ilif pulls his head out of his ass about what a woman can do, I’m not giving him any more info than necessary. I’ll tell Papi later, when Ilif’s gone.

  I step away.

  Papi turns, a genuine smile lifting one cheek. He brushes the hair at my temple. “I’ll be back. Are you staying this time?”

  My gaze flicks to Ilif before I can stop it. I forge ahead. “If it won’t interfere with you guys, I’d like to go back to Spain,” I whisper.

  “Why Spain? Do you think there’s an alteration there?”

  I attempt nonchalance. “Nah. But there’s this guy, Viriato.”

  Papi snorts. “The Spanish legend?”

  Shit. “Um, yeah. I saw a fantastic sculpture of him I want to go back and check out.”

  “Just don’t go back far enough to admire him. From the little I can remember, Viriato was ruthless. At least try to be careful.”

  We return to the kitchen, and Ilif rubs his forehead, as if annoyed we needed privacy. “I’ll be tracking your father from the lab. I assume you’ll continue to travel despite my wishes. Would you like me to monitor as much of your progress as I can?”