by Walker, Rysa
“Pretty sure you told her 2318,” Tyson says. “But I don’t think we’re going to be able to keep up that fiction. Katherine has already gotten a bit of false confidence from it, saying that we must win this round, too, otherwise there wouldn’t be historians fourteen years into the future. She knows that’s not how it works, but I think she’s just grasping at any available straw right now.”
“I can’t really blame her for that. But I never spoke to any of the people from the other timeline. Katherine is the only person I gave that name to. How did it end up in their message?”
“That’s a very good question,” he says. “I’ll add it to the list.”
Tyson looks wiped out, and I kind of feel bad about bombarding him with even more questions. But he’s the only source of information I have. “Could your computer system pinpoint exactly what was changed?”
“Oh, it probably could have, but it’s gone missing. Along with the rest of CHRONOS.”
My mouth falls open. I have the feeling that this shouldn’t be possible, but it takes me a moment to pinpoint why it doesn’t make sense. “All of it?”
“Everything,” he says. “Building, people . . . if Rich, Katherine, and I hadn’t been carrying keys, we’d be gone, too.”
“But I thought the headquarters building was protected under a CHRONOS field,” Jack says. “Same as Madi’s house. How could it just vanish?”
Tyson goes on to explain the political situation in 2304, which Katherine’s diaries had painted in a somewhat more idyllic light. “We think the government just . . . switched off the field around the agency. Angelo had already sent them our report and was headed over at that very moment to explain to them why doing something like that would be exceptionally stupid, since we’re their only line of defense. But he didn’t get a chance to make that argument.”
“Without that report, you’ll be flying blind,” Jack says.
“Not exactly. We’re fairly certain that two of the pivot points are that the Japanese never attack Pearl Harbor, and someone tries to kill Charles Lindbergh. There’s also something with a priest who’s now a Cyrist, but that may be peripheral . . .”
I don’t really hear much of what he says after the word Cyrist. Thea’s caution during our call earlier is now echoing in my mind.
Just a hunch. The Book of Prophecy says the next few days could be a teensy bit bumpy.
FROM THE BOOK OF CYRUS (NEW ENGLISH VERSION, 3RD ED) CHAPTER 7:18–19
18To suckle the weak equally with the strong is folly. 19There can be no true progress until we reject the foolish idea that the strong have a moral obligation to the weak.
∞9∞
KATHERINE
WASHINGTON, DC
NOVEMBER 12, 2304
A small line of people has already gathered outside the Objectivist Club when Richard and I finally get there. The Club doesn’t open for nonresident members until noon in our timeline, and apparently, it’s the same in this reality. That’s never been an issue for Saul. Due in part to the fact that several members of his family are residents and in part to his friendly rivalry with Campbell, Saul comes and goes as he pleases.
I’m actually glad to see the line. Hopefully at least a few of them will be chatty, and we’ll be able to gather some information about anything that might be different in this reality. That’s the first thing they teach you as a historian. Your initial task is to listen and observe until you’re comfortable and reasonably certain your interactions with the individuals from that era will seem natural and not in any way out of the ordinary. We already have one strike against us. While most sections of the OC in our timeline allow casual clothing, and the spa and pool are clothing optional, the Redwing Room and other exclusive areas have a more formal dress code. Judging from the people in front of us, I’m guessing that code extends to the entire club now. The outfit I’m wearing—narrow purple pants with a matching multicolored tunic—didn’t seem at all outrageous when I selected it this morning, but it’s horribly out of place here. Richard’s attire isn’t much better—he’s in denim pants and a brown T-shirt that shows a bushy-haired man playing a flute bracketed by the words Jethro Tull at the top and Living in the Past at the bottom. The shirt is actually kind of amusing for a time traveler, especially one who studies music history, but it’s a questionable choice when every other man in the line is wearing a coat and tie.
On the walk over, Rich and I agreed to play it by ear. If by some fluke we manage to get in, we’ll use their resources to find more information and then inquire about Saul. I think it’s far more likely we’ll be stopped at the door, at which point I’ll ask for Morgen, dropping a few bits of information that I hope are still true of this version of the OC’s owner.
There are three groups of people in front of us. One is a cluster of men who are chatting about something I’m not following at all, mostly because their speech is peppered by a slew of acronyms and abbreviations. Behind them is a middle-aged couple in attire that reminds me a lot of the 1850s in terms of the drab color scheme, although the cut is more functional and modern. Something strikes me as odd about the woman’s face, but I can’t quite place what’s bothering me. She’s one of the few who’s not wearing a mask—she has tiny nose filters inside her nostrils—but that’s not what’s sticking in my mind.
Directly in front of us is a younger couple, and judging from their conversation I’m going to guess that they’re only planning to be a couple for a few hours. The clothing worn by the girl—and I’m using the word advisedly because she can’t be much over eighteen—makes my outfit look modest. Her skirt is short enough that we’re treated to a glimpse of her butt cheeks each time she takes a step. They’re nice butt cheeks and I’m not easily offended, but I don’t think the same can be said for the woman in front of them.
“I’ve been here a couple of times before,” the girl tells her escort. “The last time was utterly lish. My friend took me on a shopping spree at one of the exclusive shops on the promenade before we went to our booth. The shops can print out an entire outfit, including jewelry, in under a minute. You have to see it.”
The older woman glances back over her shoulder and gives the couple a poisonous look, but the girl continues talking, either oblivious to the woman’s censure or simply not caring. Her companion notices, however, and flushes a deep red. “Sure,” he says in a low voice. “Maybe we can stop by . . . after.”
At exactly noon, the oldest member of the group of men at the front taps at the door with his cane. I’d thought the walking stick was just an affectation, but he stumbles slightly, and one of his companions grabs the old man’s elbow to steady him. A few seconds later the door opens, and we file inside. The display on the right wall as we enter shows a static listing of locations inside the Club on one side and a slideshow of images showcasing the Club’s features, many of which remain the same in this timeline. Most of the shops, the spa, and other recreational facilities take up the basement level, below the main restaurant and lobby. Redwing Hall, private booths, and the primary gaming complex are still on the second floor. Above that are several levels of offices, and the top twenty floors are member residences.
I expect to see the standard sentry system at the door. Usually, when you step inside, you simply stand there for a moment until the body scan is complete and then enter when the interior door opens. Or, in some cases, you leave because Morgen Campbell is no longer extending you credit. But today there’s an impeccably dressed guy in his twenties standing just inside the doorway. His hair is parted in the middle and slicked down on either side in a fashion that was popular in the 1920s and had a brief, unfortunate resurgence a few years back. The group of men and the older couple in front of us must be regulars, because the doorman nods and waves them in without ceremony. He holds out a print reader to the younger man, who presses his thumb to the screen, looking a bit nervous. After a few seconds, the door opens. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Walters.” The young guy nods, placing his left hand on the gi
rl’s waist as they go through the door. A blue flower is tattooed on the back of his hand.
Richard looks every bit as nervous as the previous guy as he presses his thumb to the pad. When the door opens, the doorman says, “Ah, Mr. Vier. This appears to be your first visit?”
“Uh . . . yes.” Rich seems to be trying to think of something else to say, but the doorman saves him the trouble.
“We have full reciprocity with the OCNYC, of course. Your charges will be posted to the account on file.” His eyes then turn toward me, and he runs one hand across his well-oiled head as he takes in my outfit. “Will you be needing a private booth, or . . .”
“Oh, no,” Richard says. “No. My wife and I were hoping to have lunch in the Redwing Room. We were at a costume event to raise money for . . . a friend who’s running in the local alderman’s race.”
I smile at the doorman. “Yes. Silly me. I packed a second set of clothes but forgot to bring it with us. So we’re going to need to visit the promenade first.”
He nods. “By all means. The layout of the Club is very similar to that of our NYC facility, but feel free to stop at the information kiosk if you have trouble finding the services that you require, Mrs. Vier. Shall I reserve a table for two at twelve thirty, or will you need more time on the promenade?”
Richard tells him that twelve thirty will be fine. We step into the main lobby, a massive room that is even more opulent than the OC I’m used to. The place seems less crowded, too. Usually the main floor is bustling, since it’s open to the public. But the crowds on the main level today are closer to what you normally see in the more exclusive upper rooms.
A lift tube carries us down to the basement, which doesn’t look like a basement at all. The pool and faux beach that take up the left side of this level are similar to what I’ve seen in the past, but the ceiling in this reality has had a major upgrade. It now displays a clear summer sky with wispy clouds that float above the swimmers. Several small spa kiosks are arranged on the far side of the pool. The right half of the basement level contains an array of small specialty shops, including a bakery with a logo that looks a bit like the one on the box when Saul brings home pastries, but I’m pretty sure that one was called Foster’s and this is Fason’s. There’s an ice-cream shop next to that, where a woman and two young girls are seated, each with an empty container of gelato in front of her, and each engaged with her own handheld device.
In our timeline, people run these kiosks, but none of the shops here are manned. I’m sure there are at least a few real live humans monitoring the cameras and making sure you only leave with what you’ve paid for, but to the casual observer, it looks like the honor system is alive and well at the Objectivist Club.
I rarely frequent the promenade shops at the OC. One advantage of being with CHRONOS is that we have fairly decent clothing printers at our disposal. When we’re at HQ, we generally only wear the jumpsuits we refer to as scrubs, and it doesn’t take a very complex printer to spit those out. Anything I can’t put together in my quarters can be obtained in costuming for a few credits.
It takes only a couple of minutes, however, to locate the custom boutique our cheeky friend in the line outside the Club mentioned to her date. After thumbing through the menu, however, we realize it will take considerably more than a few credits to clothe the two of us. Richard shakes his head as he presses his thumb to the paypad. “Sure hope my alternate self has more credits in his account than I do. Or did.”
The printer here is even larger than the one in costuming, and the girl was right about the speed. In less than five minutes, we’re headed for the dressing rooms, new clothes in hand. We leave the shop in outfits that are close enough to the ones we saw on the sidewalk and in the lobby, but should also work for the late 1930s or early 1940s. A suit for Rich, and a tailored dress with a narrow, calf-length skirt for me. We make it to the Redwing Room with ten minutes to spare.
“Some things haven’t changed.” Richard nods toward the collection of animal trophies and portraits that decorates the walls. Most of the portraits are of stuffy old men, but there are a few stuffy old women in the mix, including a distant relative of Saul’s family. At the very end is a portrait of Morgen Campbell when he was in his early thirties, looking virtually identical to the younger version that Tyson showed me through his CHRONOS key—stocky, but not yet fat, with dark hair, a slightly crooked nose, and a ruby signet ring on his pinky finger. The layout of the room is the same in this timeline—a three-story atrium surrounded by tall trees and other greenery that partially obscures the offices that surround the room on the upper floors.
The hostess, a stunning young woman with auburn hair, tells us that our table will be ready soon and asks whether we’d prefer to wait in the bar or stroll around the game room. We choose the latter, because if Saul is here, he’ll either be there, showing off his skills to other time-chess players, or else in Morgen’s quarters, engaged in one of their mano-a-mano showdowns.
But he’s not here, I remind myself. He’s not with Campbell, either. You know that he can’t be. This is just so you can tell yourself that you looked. That you didn’t leave without at least attempting to find him.
It only takes a couple of minutes to loop around the game room, which isn’t crowded, and I’m able to confirm that Saul isn’t at any of the consoles. And the odds of him being with Campbell this early in the day are really slim, since Campbell is a night owl. The guy is rarely even awake this time of day, and he doesn’t like to play until he’s eaten and taken his stimulants.
Rich is quiet as we walk through the game room. He knows me well enough to understand why I have to do this, even though we both know this is almost certainly a complete waste of time. When we return to the Redwing Room, the hostess leads us toward one of the small tables on the periphery, near what most of us at CHRONOS call Morgen’s throne, the slightly raised platform upon which the fat gox holds court at the various social gatherings he hosts, usually with that ancient Doberman at his feet. The throne is empty today, and it may be the first time I’ve ever had mixed feelings on that point. At least once a year, he holds exclusive gatherings for CHRONOS historians in this room. Most of us don’t like the man, but the food is good, he serves real alcohol, and we know everyone else will be here. So we tolerate his questions and, in the case of female historians, his leering glances and the occasional bit of innuendo.
“You okay?” Richard asks. His brows are knitted in concern, his gray eyes slightly magnified by the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses.
That’s when I realize what was odd about the older woman’s face in the line outside. She was wearing glasses, like Rich. Hers had silver rims, but they made her eyes look kind of small, so I don’t think they were cosmetic. Now that I think about it, I’ve seen several other people in glasses, too. In our timeline, Rich’s glasses are an oddity. One of the things he hates about Q&A sessions is that kids want him to take them off so they can look through them. The design team purposefully left him with substandard vision to add a touch of realism to his character when he travels, something that annoys him to no end. But the sort of defect that they added in his case is one that would be resolved with a modification before birth or, in rare cases, with a series of simple surgeries. Mods like that are freebies, so routine that they don’t count as the chosen gift each child is granted automatically. The old man’s cane was a bit odd, too, thinking back. Age-related mobility problems are generally handled by shoes that project a force field designed to steady the wearer.
“Richard, have you seen anyone with obvious genetic modifications? Or tech implants? I haven’t even seen a tat communicator, just people with watchbands or handheld units.”
“You’re right,” he says. “In fact, the only tattoos I’ve seen at all are those small lotus tattoos. About a third of the people I saw in the game room were wearing them. I’m trying to think if there’s ever been a time I was in Redwing Hall and didn’t see at least a few people flaunting their cosmetic ch
osen gifts.”
The entire purpose of the chosen-gift system is to prepare a child for his or her career. Absent a bribe or political connections, the chosen gift is determined by the government in order to fill specific job quotas. In most cases, families save up to pay that bribe, because investing wisely in a chosen gift is one way to break out of your economic class. About once a generation, the Solons pass laws that require strict adherence to the rules of the International Genetic Alterations Accords. The bribe taking stops for a year or two, and then gradually ratchets upward again.
Wealthy families, however, often select a chosen gift that isn’t related to any field of work, or even the arts. It’s fashionable to pick a gift that people can see, a gift that is ostentatious and strictly for show, simply to point out that you have so much money your offspring don’t need a practical chosen gift. There’s a whole shopping list of modifications to choose from. Saul said he knew a guy growing up who could change colors to match his surroundings. A woman who lives at the OC in our timeline has wings. They’re not functional, merely for show—golden, glittery things that she flutters during conversations the same way many people talk with their hands. I’ve always wondered if she’s happy with the choice her parents made for her, but that’s not the kind of thing you ask.
We take a minute to look at the menu. I really can’t imagine eating anything, so soup might be the safest option. As I tap the display to close the menu, however, I get the feeling that someone is watching me. No. It’s more like they’re scanning me. Richard must feel it, too, because he glances at something over my shoulder.
“Fuck,” he says. “Sutter. And he still has the eye.”
I can’t bring myself to turn and look, but it’s a moot point. Sutter is at our table a few seconds later, along with two guys who are nearly as well muscled as Tate Poulsen. And Richard was right about Sutter’s prosthetic eye. It looks slightly different to me, but I’ve never spent much time looking directly at Sutter—no one does if they’re smart. Sutter points something that looks like an old-fashioned ink pen at Richard. One of his two muscle-bound bookends steps forward to grab Richard’s arm, and the other grabs mine. “Not sure what game you two are playing,” Sutter says as he reaches for Rich’s backpack, “but it’s over.”
