by Walker, Rysa
The third call is from my maternal grandmother, Thea Randall, which isn’t entirely a coincidence, since I left several messages for her with friends and also told my mom to have her call me if she checked in.
“Jarvis, return call to Thea.”
“Yes, mistress. Voice only?”
“No. Put her on the wall screen if she answers.”
Even though I really do need to talk to her, and actually came inside with the express intention of calling her, I find myself half hoping she doesn’t pick up. Speaking with Thea is likely to give me a worse headache than thinking about temporal conundrums. The woman flits like a butterfly from topic to topic, giving cryptic answers to even the simplest questions. And the questions I need to ask her right now are far from simple.
Thea’s smiling face pops onto the screen. Guess I won’t be dodging the headache today.
“Madi, my angel! It’s been forever. I got your messages, but it’s been such a hectic week, you can’t even imagine. In fact, you caught me just as I was heading out.”
Thea is dressed, as usual, in one of her flowing caftans. This one is red and black and looks vaguely East Asian. It’s cut to showcase metallic-gold tattoos on her shoulders. Her hair, which was dark and curly in her youth, is mostly silver these days, unless she dyes it, but her face still looks quite young. I’m sure my other grandmother, Nora, who is not at all fond of Thea, would say that this is the result of regular cellular-regeneration treatments and quite a bit of surgery. I think that’s probably true, but it could also be genetic, thanks to the twisted branches of my family tree. I still haven’t pieced together whether it’s due to cloning or time travel, but it can’t be simple coincidence that my maternal grandmother, Thea, looks almost identical to my paternal great-great-grandmother, Kate Pierce-Keller. I’m even more struck by that resemblance now, having watched an elderly Kate through the CHRONOS key for many hours during the past week, as I tried to decide whether to jump back and ask her advice before diving in to fix the time rift. And while Kate was at least fifteen years older than Thea is now, she looked very good for ninety.
“That’s okay,” I tell Thea. “I’ve been really busy, too. I won’t keep you long. There are just a couple of questions I need to ask.”
“Mila told me that you popped in, all stressed about inherited enhancements. You should have come straight to me. You know how easily agitated your mother can be. From what she said, I’m going to assume that you’ve found a medallion and you can use it, because there’s no way your enhancements showed up on a genetics sweep—or at least not one approved by any major government. Far too much money has been spent to make certain that little secret stays secret.”
I’d planned to broach the subject of enhancements with a bit more caution. I have no idea who might be listening. Jack said that the military-research unit his father was attached to came through the house before I moved in. They were picking up signals from chronotron particles, and even though they searched carefully, they never found the key that was hidden in a light in the basement swimming pool. For all I know, those people could be listening to every word. Which means they know I’m enhanced already, but Thea has just casually informed them that my mother was apparently in on it, or at least aware of it.
Might as well throw subtlety out the window at this point. Given Thea’s personality, it never stood a chance in hell anyway. “So, you both knew I was enhanced?”
“Well, of course I knew. You’re my granddaughter, after all.”
“Did my father know?”
Thea shrugs. “You’ll have to ask your mother. I don’t know how much she told him. Or, for that matter, how much Nora told him. Mila would have been far better off if she hadn’t gotten so involved. But your mother was always emotional. I think she actually loved the man.”
I bite my lip firmly and take a deep breath. I’d hoped to keep Nora’s name out of the conversation as much as possible. I’ve already spoken with her, and I’m convinced she didn’t know about any of this. What really chafes me, however, is Thea’s implication that my mother married beneath her station, as they said back in the era of the Brontë sisters. In truth, she’d married into a considerable fortune, which she managed to lose in just a few short months after my father’s death, thanks to some truly abysmal investments. Pointing this out to Thea, however, would probably result in her pouting and ending the call. I’ve seen it happen numerous times when she’s been talking to my mother. Thea never holds a grudge, though, and the next time they speak, all seems to be forgiven.
Or maybe all is simply forgotten?
Still, I can’t let the comment pass entirely. “You think it would have been better for her to raise me alone?” I ask, repressing a shudder at that idea. I love my mother, but growing up, I ran to my dad if I skinned my knee or needed comfort after a nightmare. He was the steady one. Mila runs hot and cold, and I never know whether she’ll overreact or dismiss me entirely.
“Oh, goodness, no, dear. Mila wouldn’t have been alone. And you’d have had an entire community to surround you with love and give you a more . . . practical education than the one your father chose.”
“He didn’t choose my field of study.”
She waves me off. “Well, of course he did. He comes from a nearly unbroken line of historians. And you chose to study history. The fact that you don’t realize it wasn’t your choice simply shows he did an excellent job indoctrinating you. Plus, he took you hiking on those awful mountains and gave Mila such nightmares by encouraging your swimming hobby. Although, to be fair, Mila’s fear of water is completely neurotic. Swimming is almost as good as meditating.”
I’m a little surprised to hear her echoing my thoughts on swimming, but her comments about my dad really aren’t fair. “My father didn’t indoctrinate me. He studied ancient Celtic culture. I’m a literary historian. They’re really not the same field.” I could argue the point further, but it doesn’t matter. If she wants to believe my father was a master manipulator, fine. It’s not going to change my opinion of the man. “Anyway, I think maybe I inherited an interest in history from both sides of my family. I’ve compared pictures, and . . . you’re clearly related to Kate Pierce-Keller. Or more specifically, to her aunt, Prudence Rand. Is that why you didn’t want my parents to marry? Because they’re cousins?”
That’s putting a rather dramatic spin on the situation—they’re probably fourth or fifth cousins, and at least one generation removed, although the time-travel factor makes it hard to be certain. But I want to see Thea’s response.
“Oh, sweetie, I guess Mila was right. You are wound up about this. Of course I’m related to Prudence, although my group gave up the name years ago and let the next batch of Sisters take it. Most of us are quite eager to move on. Too much pressure, and far too little sex, which you’d really think wouldn’t be the case, since they used to consider her a fertility goddess. All those pictures of Sister Pru with her swollen belly, but there are so many guards around you when you go out in public that no man you’d be interested in could get within twenty yards. I could only take a few years of that.”
There’s a lot to unpack in that statement, but all I can come up with is a painfully obvious question that I already know the answer to. “So, you’re a Cyrist?”
She laughs. “Oh, I’m a bit of everything. You know that. But in the end, as they say, all roads lead to Cyrus.”
“I thought that was Rome . . .”
“Well, you could go back and check, couldn’t you? I mean, to see if all roads really do lead to Rome?”
There’s a teasing note in her voice. It’s clear that she’s trying to get me to admit I can use the key to travel. For some reason I can’t quite put my finger on, however, I really don’t want to do that. She and my mother seem to have been keeping secrets from me my entire life, and I’m not inclined toward sharing anything with them at the moment.
“I really have to run, Mads. Mila said you’re at the house in Bethesda. I’m headed to DC ver
y, very soon, and we’ll have a nice, long chat. If you venture out of the house, though, please keep that medallion on you.”
“Why?”
“Just a hunch. The Book of Prophecy says the next few days could be a teensy bit bumpy. But don’t worry. I’ve taken care of everything, sweetie. Love you, bye!”
As she reaches forward to end the call, her sleeve slides back, revealing a bracelet on her right wrist. It’s a fairly simple piece of jewelry for Thea, whose style tends toward the excessively ornate. Just a plain hammered-bronze cuff. The only ornamentation is the glowing amber stone in the middle, which is exactly the same shade that I see the CHRONOS keys.
FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID
CONGRESS NEARLY UNITED IN SUPPORT FOR WAR
(Washington, December 9, 1941) Congress has formally declared war against Japan in the wake of Sunday’s bombing of Pearl Harbor. At twelve thirty p.m., President Roosevelt personally delivered his request before a joint session of the Senate and House, where it was approved with almost unanimous support.
In his brief address to Congress, the president proclaimed December 7, 1941, to be “a date which will live in infamy,” as the nation was “suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.” Current estimates of casualties from the attack are 1,500 dead and 1,500 wounded.
Additional reports indicate heavy losses from Japanese attacks in the Philippines, Guam, and Wake and Midway Islands. Reinforcements are currently on their way to Hawaii, where repairs have already begun on damaged facilities, ships, and planes.
Following the president’s speech, Congress debated for a mere thirty-two minutes. At 1:10 p.m., the House adopted the resolution, which had been passed ten minutes earlier by the Senate, thus formally entering the nation into a state of war. It was signed three hours later at the White House, in the presence of Vice President Wallace and leaders of both the House and the Senate.
Numerous isolationist groups, including the America First Committee, have pledged full support for the war effort. Charles A. Lindbergh, a leader of the movement, issued an official statement from the national headquarters of the organization in Chicago:
“We have been stepping closer to war for many months. Now it has come, and we must meet it as united Americans, regardless of our attitude in the past toward the policy our government has followed.
“Whether or not that policy has been wise, our country has been attacked by force of arms and by force of arms we must retaliate.”
∞2∞
TYSON
CHRONOS HQ
WASHINGTON, EC
NOVEMBER 10, 2304
When I was seven years old, my great-grandfather died. He’d lived with us my entire life, so I was devastated. The very next day, my cat died. It felt like the universe had softened me up with the first punch, and just when I thought I couldn’t possibly be more miserable, it had taken the challenge and come back in for that second blow. I told my mother it wasn’t fair, and she agreed, pointing out that life was just that way sometimes. For weeks afterward, I followed her and my dad around, barely letting them out of my sight, terrified that they were the next targets of a universe that gets a sick pleasure from kicking kids when they’re down.
The message on the display is definitely triggering my inner seven-year-old, because this feels much the same. Rich, Katherine, and I spent the last week getting the timeline back on track. Probably more than a week, if I tallied up the actual minutes, because I crammed at least forty-eight hours into a few of those days. I nearly got myself killed on two separate occasions. And we don’t even get a few minutes to breathe before they hit us with this? I have a totally irrational urge to grab the console, which isn’t much larger than my fist, and hurl it against the wall.
Not that I’d anticipated a parade or cheers from our colleagues. They aren’t even aware that anything out of the ordinary happened, and if everything goes as planned, it’ll stay that way. Angelo explained away the jolt that most of them felt during their trips as a temporary fluctuation, a bit of minor turbulence in the CHRONOS field. A few of the more seasoned historians seemed skeptical. I don’t blame them. I’ve never heard of that kind of glitch in the field, and I doubt any of them have, either. I expect at least a few of them will pull Angelo aside later and question him more thoroughly, but no one pushed the matter at the time. With the notable exception of Saul Rand, who dropped his medallion off with the guard at the door and stormed out of the jump room, everyone followed standard protocol and headed off to the med pod for clearance. So, no. I hadn’t expected applause or even a pat on the back. All I was hoping for was a stiff drink and at least ten hours of well-earned, peaceful sleep.
I’ll still be having that drink. In fact, I may have several. But the words currently floating in front of the globe on the Temporal Dilemma display guarantee that any sleep I get will be far from peaceful.
SINCE YOU SEEM TO WANT TO PLAY . . .
OUR OBJECTIVE: PREVENT THE US FROM ENTERING WWII
LENGTH: THREE ROUNDS
RESTRICTIONS: FOUR-PLAYER TEAMS, CONTINENTAL US, NO PLAYER SUBSTITUTIONS, NO WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION, FIVE OBSERVERS PER TEAM
TEAM ONE: MORGEN CAMPBELL, SAUL RAND, ALISA CAMPBELL, ESTHER SOWAH
TEAM TWO: TYSON REYES, MAX COLEMAN, KATHERINE SHAW, RICHARD VIER
STAY TUNED FOR OUR OPENING GAMBIT!
Katherine laughs uneasily. “Good one, Angelo. Kind of evil, given everything we’ve been through over the past several days, but . . .” She trails off when she sees his face.
But she already knew it wasn’t a joke. The laugh was just her way of releasing tension. Rich definitely knows, judging from the way he flinched and closed his eyes briefly before even reading the words on the screen.
“If this is a joke,” Angelo says, “no one let me in on it. It’s going to be hard enough explaining that last time shift without giving the government a whole new list of reasons to defund this entire project. Or maybe even erase it and everyone in this building in the process. Does that sound like something I’d joke about?”
“No,” Katherine says. “You’re right. Just wishful thinking on my part, because if this is real . . .”
She doesn’t need to finish the rest of the statement. The last time shift could have radically changed our present reality. We managed to prevent the murder of seven people, four of whom—Martin Luther King Jr., John Lennon, James Baldwin, and Mary Travers—were historically significant to the point that their combined early deaths extended the war in Vietnam and caused ripples that radically altered the course of history. And we all know that the changes caused from extending the Vietnam conflict would be tiny drops in the bucket compared to the US never entering World War II.
Aside from a few unauthorized jumps from the isolation tank that Angelo will have to explain, and the aforementioned turbulence excuse given to historians who were in the field, there’s nothing to suggest that the timeline was ever altered. Only the four of us in this room and the jump staff know what really happened, and I’m not even certain that they have the full story.
And the full story really, really needs to stay under wraps. The CHRONOS program has always been controversial. Even though we reversed the time shift, if too many people discover what happened, the government will almost certainly pull our funding. And, as Angelo just hinted, the odds are good that they will decide to take things a step further and retroactively erase the organization entirely or stick with remote surveillance instead of sending human agents. While that’s an idea that seems quite logical to me after the past few days, it would effectively erase everyone at CHRONOS, thanks to the shopping list of genetic alterations we received before we were born. The package is referred to as “the CHRONOS gene” to maintain the fiction that we are given the single “chosen gift” that everyone else is granted, in keeping with the International Genetic Alterations Accords. But in addition to the genetic tweak that allows us to operate the equipment, they also adjust a mul
titude of other characteristics—mental, physical, and emotional—that they believe will make us more effective in the field and ensure that we’re better suited for the specific eras and societies we’ll be assigned to research. That’s true for the many people who work at the agency in support positions, too, albeit to a lesser extent. If this organization is erased, some version of us might exist somewhere, but we’d be completely different people.
Katherine, Rich, and I understood that we were not on an official mission when we agreed to go back and try to fix the timeline. If we’d failed, Angelo wouldn’t have been able to offer us much cover, but then it likely wouldn’t have mattered because we’d all have been erased anyway. What truly grates is that we didn’t fail and we’re still facing the same consequences.
“How did they manage to send a message across timelines?” Rich asks.
“Apparently they didn’t.” Angelo rubs his face, probably trying to wake up. His eyes are puffy with exhaustion. “Security claims that the message came from within CHRONOS.”
I glance toward the closed door that leads to the Temporal Monitoring Unit. “Do you think one of the time-chess players hitched a ride on our signal?”
“Seems unlikely. The message arrived about twenty minutes before you did—giving several of us a dual memory. Security isn’t showing biometric data for any unauthorized personnel in the past twenty-four hours. No duplicates, either, aside from one fifth-year who did her splinter test yesterday afternoon, and that aberration resolved in eight minutes.”
I wince, remembering my own experience with that test. Jumping back to hold a conversation with an earlier version of yourself isn’t fun, to say the least. Nor is watching that earlier version, which we refer to as a splinter, blink out of existence. The headache that follows is brutal, as the brain tries to reconcile two conflicting sets of memories. I think that’s one reason it’s part of the curriculum—to make sure agents, who occasionally travel to the same event twice to experience different points of view, fully understand why you do not want to cross your own path in the field.
