Smiling wistfully as the droids continued to showcase the beautiful clothing from centuries past, excitement made me forget my weariness. Normally I wasn’t all that interested in clothes and fashion, but something about the elegance of the twenties style appealed to me. To my surprise, I found myself looking forward to wearing the beautiful outfits.
As promised, after the fashion show ended, Olivia returned with more French specialties for dinner. While Gaige and I ate, Eisenhower answered the rest of our concerns and added some final tips.
Once our plates were cleared away, he tapped several keys on the control box and sent exams over to our Qubes. There were a hundred and fifty questions, including some on basic French phrases we should know, even though we’d be posing as Americans. I finished in a little over two hours, scoring a ninety percent. Gaige, being a knowledge sponge, scored a ninety-eight.
“Who’s the suck up now?” I joked when he shoved his Qube under my nose and pointed to his grade.
“Too bad we didn’t bet on the results,” he replied.
“I know better than that.”
“At least you know something,” he teased.
“You are both to be commended,” Eisenhower announced. “However, you also both need a lot of work in the language department. You are lucky that all of the expatriates speak English, as do many of the other players. Since you are posing as Americans, your limited French capabilities will be expected.
“Despite this, you should still wear a Rosetta at all times on this run. This will allow you to understand what those around you are saying when not speaking to you directly. It is often helpful to know what people say when they think you cannot comprehend them.”
At the height of the nano-neuro craze, similar tech was actually implanted in the brain, but the long-term side effects were, predictably, pretty horrific. Though I didn’t quite understand the science involved, the Rosetta’s translation outputs were actually heard in the head of the wearer, like creepy little schizophrenic voices; it had definitely taken some getting used to.
After fourteen hours of nonstop cramming, my head felt as though it might explode from of the information that had been stuffed inside. Dazed, I began gathering my things.
Before we left, as always, Eisenhower ended with the historians’ motto: Change not the past, lest we lose our present and destroy the future for all.
THE STAFF AT the work camp was, in a word, disaffected. They showed little more than apathy towards the orphaned children in their charge, with one exception: the dorm matron. She wasn’t physically affectionate—no hugs before bed, no kisses for skinned knees—but she was kind and human enough to comfort a little girl who longed for her family. She used to tell me that my birth parents were among the stars. I took her words literally, and each night before bed I would look out the window and pick one star to be my mother and one to be my father.
Even though I knew better now, old habits died hard.
Standing on the back patio of my bungalow, I gazed up at the sea of diamonds strewn across the blue velvet sky. The bright, twinkling specks were so close to one another, they could’ve been wrapped in a lover’s embrace. I chose two, brought my locket to my lips and made the same whispered promise I had every night for the past fifteen years.
“I’ll find you,” I told them.
I entered the bungalow through the back and found Molly sitting on the living room sofa. She wore a loose-fitting, long-sleeved gray cotton shirt. A quilt covered her long legs and hid the worst of her burns. Dark brown and bright blue strands of hair were loose around her face and tousled. Dilated pupils shone from eyes shadowed by dark circles, evidence that her medication-induced slumber hadn’t been very restful. But the wide grin on her lips was so dazzling it nearly blinded me to her exhaustion.
“You aren’t usually this happy to see me,” I joked.
Color crept into her ivory cheeks. “Oh, hey, Stass, you’re home,” she said too loudly. “What’s in the bag?”
I’d taken a detour to the canteen on the way home to restock Molly’s chocolate supply.
“Goodies,” I replied suspiciously. “Why are you yelling at me?”
“Goodies for me?” Molly asked hopefully, her voice much quieter now. “You shouldn’t have.”
“They’re purely medicinal.”
“What about me?” a male voice called from another room. “Do I get goodies, too?”
My partner strolled out of Molly’s bedroom, a pink cardigan draped over one arm. He held up the sweater for Molly’s inspection. “This one okay?”
She nodded. “Perfect. Thanks.”
I set the bag of chocolate on the coffee table and concentrated on looking anywhere but at my two friends as Gaige helped Molly into the cardigan. That was when I noticed the digi-screen. Six rectangular film covers all with a different image but the same title sat on virtual shelves.
“Really? You’re going to watch the movie instead of reading the book? You are such a cheater,” I said to Gaige with mock sternness.
He eased down on the sofa next to Molly.
“I’m a visual learner, Stass. I’ll retain more knowledge by watching the movie,” Gaige replied.
“In a third of the time,” I said dryly. “How convenient.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Gaige said, feigning confusion.
“Watch with us,” Molly said, batting her long lashes. “You can even pick which version.”
I was torn. It was late. I was exhausted and the thought of reading an entire book by morning was daunting. Still, I’d been looking forward to a little alone time to mentally psych myself up for the mission ahead.
Molly launched in to a detailed explanation of the different versions of Gatsby, listing off pros and cons of each. The oldest was a silent film from 1926, which Gaige vetoed before I could do the same. The most recent was from 2338 and, according to my roommate, was critically acclaimed for its use of a gender-ambiguous cast.
“Might be fun to see if we can guess which characters are played by women and which are played by men,” I suggested halfheartedly.
“And, last but not least, we have the 2013 Gatsby,” Molly continued talking right over me. She went on to describe the beautiful clothes and opulent sets with so much enthusiasm that I didn’t have to ask which version she wanted to watch.
“Let’s go with that one,” I said when she was finished.
“You sure?” Molly asked. “Like I said, it’s totally up to you.”
I smiled. “I’m sure. Far be it for me to deny an invalid her wish. Here, make yourself useful.” I tossed the remote to Gaige.
“It has that one guy from that boat movie you like,” Molly added hopefully. “Oh! And the guy who played Bugman.”
“You’re the one who liked that boat movie,” I reminded my roommate. “Remember? I thought it was silly since you knew the whole time how it was going to end.”
Rolling his eyes at our banter, Gaige used the universal remote to select the 2013 version of Gatsby, dim the living room lights, and, judging by the sweat beads forming on my skin, raise the temperature in the bungalow. I was about to make a snarky comment when Molly shuddered violently. She pulled the cardigan tighter around her thin shoulders.
“Could you turn up the heat another degree or two?” I asked instead, knowing Molly was too proud and too stubborn to make the request.
Gaige did as instructed, and then peeled off his pullover to compensate for the warmer climate.
A haunting melody filled the air as the movie began to play.
The three of us chatted easily about the storyline, clothes, and setting of the film. Molly, who’d apparently seen the other versions, kept up a running commentary on how this adaptation differed from the others.
“I’m so jealous,” Molly declared wistfully. On screen, champagne fountains flowed and elegant men and women danced at Jay Gatsby’s magnificent home.
“Why?” I asked. “I thought you told Cyrus you were done with
this life.”
“I know, I know. Getting burned at the stake for being a witch sort of puts a damper on things. It’s just that…I love being a runner. You guys get to go live for over a month in that,” she replied, gesturing at the screen. “That’s going to be so much fun. I know I said I’m done with it, but I really wish I could go with you. I want to experience everything possible, I don’t want to be a boring island rat.”
“Have you talked to Cyrus again?” Gaige asked carefully.
“He stopped by earlier. He’s refusing to accept my resignation until I’m fully recovered,” Molly told us.
“I think that’s great advice,” I said sagely.
Molly shrugged as a chill ran through her, though this time I had a feeling it was a memory that made her shiver.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I really don’t know what to do. Yesterday I was convinced that running was my past. Now, I don’t know. I think maybe I was just upset. And I don’t feel like I’m knocking on death’s door anymore, so I guess that could be part of it.”
“What happened must have been really scary,” Gaige said.
The haunted expression still lingered in her big blue eyes. She’d been through a nightmarish ordeal, one that would have landed most any other runner on mental health leave. Suddenly, I felt very selfish for taking the Paris mission, when my roommate so obviously needed moral support.
“I’m sure Cyrus wouldn’t mind if we pushed the run back a couple of days,” I began.
“No.” Molly shook her head decisively. “Totally unnecessary. Come on, Stassi. Who do you think you’re talking to? I’ll be fine. I am fine.” With the declaration, she sat up straighter and tucked her gauze wrapped hands beneath the quilt to hide them from view.
Yesterday, when she’d come bursting through the door during the meeting, I’d been terrified. The thought of losing Molly was too much. She meant too much to me. Physically, at least, she was on the mend, I noted. In a couple of days, the burns would start to fade and, thanks to the syndicate’s top-notch doctors, she wouldn’t have any scars to serve as constant reminders of the ordeal. It was the emotional scarring that worried me. How long would those wounds take to heal?
As I studied her defiant expression, I couldn’t help but wonder if Molly was putting on a show so I wouldn’t worry about her.
“I’m fine,” Molly insisted, when I didn’t avert my gaze. “Besides, you have a lead to follow up on. You shouldn’t put that off.”
“I’ve waited fifteen years,” I replied, brushing off her statement. “Another few days won’t hurt.”
“No,” Molly repeated firmly. “Look, I have my mom and dad if I need anything. And Tiger. He’s offered to stay with me while you’re gone, just until I’m totally back on my feet.”
When the screen faded on the heartbreaking tale of lost love, we called it a night. Gaige offered to help Molly to her bed and, to my surprise, she accepted. I retreated to my own sanctuary for some much needed sleep.
With the doors to the patio open, the screen pulled shut to keep out pesky island critters, a cool breeze swept through my room. Bypassing my usual nightly routine, I collapsed into bed exhausted. For a long moment, I lay snuggled under the light comforter and simply listened to the island’s soundtrack. Ocean waves crashed gently on the shore, insects sang chirpy mating songs to one another, wind rustled leaves at a slow leisurely pace.
I closed my eyes and succumbed to fatigue.
THE NEXT MORNING, I was still groggy. Excitement over the impending run and the possibility of hunting down a lead on my locket had replaced my doubts over whether I was truly ready for such a complicated mission. Trudging into the kitchen, I pressed a sequence of buttons on the coffeemaker and waited for my latte to brew.
My roommate shuffled barefoot from her room, her kimono pulled snugly around her.
“You didn’t need to get up. You should be sleeping,” I said, holding out the latte I’d made for myself to her. “Here, I’ll make another.”
“You’re too good to me,” she replied, accepting the mug. “And I wanted to see you off, I can go back to bed later.”
I repeated the command sequence on the coffeemaker as Molly sipped foam from her cup. Once my coffee was done brewing, we headed outside to sit on the patio and drink our morning pick-me-ups while watching the island come to life.
“You guys will be careful, right?” Molly asked after we’d been sitting in companionable silence for several minutes.
“Of course, we’re always careful,” I told her.
“Gaige told me about what happened in Florence. You were almost caught, Stassi. That’s not like you.”
I’d purposely not told her what had happened, not wanting to worry her while she was dealing with health issues. Gaige had such a big mouth.
“No,” I admitted. “It was kind of a mess, but we figured it out. We always do.” I smiled at my roommate. “We’ll be fine. Gaige has my back and I have his.”
Her concern was genuine and not unexpected after her own near miss. Being chased by Napoleon’s men had been scary, but was nothing compared to being burned at the stake. Or so I imagined. The thought made me shudder. It was sobering to really think about how dangerous our jobs could be.
“It’s not that, exactly. I know you guys take care of each other,” Molly replied quietly. “I just have a bad feeling about this one. Like it’s…I don’t know how to explain it. I just worry about you.”
I leaned over and hugged her gently.
“I know you do. I’ll check in regularly with customs, though. I’ll be sure Cyrus knows that you need to be kept in the loop, okay?”
This seemed to mollify Molly a little, but worry still creased her forehead. My excitement dimmed further at her concern. Molly was the opposite of a worrywart, so this was new territory.
After we finished our coffees, Molly followed me into my room while I changed and packed a few necessities for the run. Untimely possessions were most often confiscated at customs, but a few were allowed, if the agent was a lenient one. Items like my eucalyptus face cream and special mint candies that were made on the island went into my small duffle bag. Once I added my camera, charger, and Qube, I zipped the bag shut. The tech would be necessary for this mission and every syndicate house had numerous safes to keep the items hidden from prying eyes.
I didn’t bother with clothes since everything from my underwear to my headwear would be provided by customs, including period appropriate bedclothes in case someone stumbled into my bedroom by mistake. Heaven forbid an intruder find me wearing pink sleep shorts with little green palm trees and run off yelling about some girl in futuristic pajamas.
Molly pulled my rattiest jeans from a drawer, the ones with a huge hole in the left knee from a rock climbing adventure that I’d nearly not come home from. It was my first time climbing with Gaige, Tiger, and Molly, and all three were experts from having grown up on the island. They seemed to forget that the dry, flat farmlands where the work camp was located didn’t have hundred foot rock faces over clear blue-green ocean. Nonetheless, after losing my footing numerous times, I’d triumphantly reached the top with bloody knees and blistered hands.
“No, not those,” I said when she laid the holey jeans on my unmade bed. “Too many good memories associated with those, it’d be a shame to lose them.”
I’d learned to never wear clothes I liked when departing on a run. Ostensibly, customs held the garments we arrived wearing in a locker until it was time for us to return to the island. Yet, when I went back to customs for the return trip, my clothes were not always where I’d left them. It seemed there was as lucrative a black market among the alchemists for items from the future as there was in the future for items from the past. Since our livelihood depended upon them, a few pairs of jeans and some sweaters were a small price to pay. But it was still irritating.
Molly snorted. “Seriously? I thought you were miserable that day.”
“No, I had a good time,” I said defensively.<
br />
Hands on her slim hips, Molly retorted, “You haven’t been climbing with us since.”
She was right about that fact, but wrong about the reason. The trio didn’t need a novice like me holding them back, so I’d found an instructor and paid him to teach me in my spare time: Rupert. Unfortunately I didn’t have a surplus of spare time, so I was still nowhere near the level of my friends.
“Whatever. How about the acid-washed ones? They’re hideous and don’t fit well anyway,” I suggested.
Tiger and Molly had made a run to America during the late 80s or early 90s and as a joke Tiger brought back the pleated denim disaster for me.
“Tiger will be so pissed.” Molly laughed pulling out the jeans and a ratty t-shirt with a tear. “Is this shirt sentimental, too? Or can you part from this rag?”
“That’ll work,” I told her.
I changed quickly, and then spared a moment to run a brush through my hair. As I slipped on a pair of dirty sneakers that were well past their prime, Molly grabbed my bag from the bed.
Gaige and Tiger were in the living room when Molly and I emerged from my bedroom.
“What are you wearing?” Gaige covered his eyes with his hands like a child afraid of the dark. “I’m blind! I’m blind!” he cried.
Ignoring my partner’s theatrics, I turned to greet Tiger. Molly’s partner wore straight-legged jeans with a tight yellow tee. A billiard ball appeared to be leaping off of the cotton, and a slogan was scrawled underneath: Yellowbelly Saloon, We Have the Best Balls in Town.
“Nice shirt,” I told Tiger.
“Nice pants,” he shot back, grinning.
“You’re going to watch Molly while I’m gone,” I told him in my most no-nonsense tone. “Make sure she doesn’t push herself too hard, and that she gets enough sleep. She’ll probably need a nap today after getting up so early, make sure you let her rest.”
The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) Page 8
