by Walker, Rysa
“You can only have four historians as leads, but you said there were observers, right? People who could serve as assistants?”
“Yes, but—”
“I couldn’t say anything in the restaurant because my mom would have had a conniption. But I have a lot more experience using the key than she believes. I’ll fill her in on all of that later tonight, and I think she’ll eventually come around, but either way, I’m in.”
“I appreciate the offer, Clio. But I’m a little worried that you’d have a target on your back. Like I said earlier, we killed two of their observers during the last round. Katherine killed another one today who was shooting at me and Jack, and the game hasn’t even officially begun yet. Or maybe they were just aiming at Jack. It seems like there’s a certain degree of immunity for the main players, but they treat observers as pawns, and I’m not comfortable with putting anyone else in that position.”
Her mouth twists wryly. “That’s a wonderful sentiment, and I appreciate your concern for my well-being, but can you really afford to be so noble? I’m volunteering, and you need help. I’ve been in more dangerous situations. Plus, you said earlier that your best guess for time and place is 1939 to 1940 New York. I’ve spent a lot of time then and there. The Yankees’ winning streak ended in 1940 and . . .” She shrugs.
That feels a bit like a non sequitur. “Baseball, right? Are you a fan?”
“Dear God, no. I mean, I kind of was as a kid. My dad loves the game, and we used to go into New York City once or twice a season to watch the Yankees. But that was before I was forced to sit through the 1939 World Series and the 1940 regular season, over and over, because Simon Rand kept getting these damned epiphanies for how he could continue the Yankees’ streak for one more year. Only he made it worse. They were second in their division, but whatever he did put them one game behind the Indians, and he had to go back and stop himself from paying the bribe or whatever.”
I understand very little of that, aside from the name. “Simon Rand. He was with the Cyrists. Saul’s grandson, right?”
“Yeah. I’ve been stuck babysitting him for the past few years, trying to keep him from clueing in to the fact that the Cyrists lost their battle in 2015, or whenever.”
“But he could just jump forward and find out, couldn’t he?”
“Sure. If he’d really wanted to know. If he’d really wanted to grow up and face the consequences of aiding and abetting a genocidal maniac. But he preferred the freedom of playing time tourist.” She takes another long drag of the cigarette, which really doesn’t seem to be emitting much smoke, and then says, “My dad once said he thought maybe Simon did know what happened. Maybe he saw how things ended up for him and just wanted to prolong the inevitable. Play around for as long as he could in his personal historical sandbox. Mostly before the 1960s. He said history got boring by the time we got involved in Vietnam, but I think he just didn’t like being around after Marilyn Monroe died. And he was definitely obsessed with her. He sent roses to her suite at the Lexington the entire time she was married to DiMaggio. It caused a bit of a problem between the couple. DiMaggio had the doorman refuse all flower deliveries, but they still kept showing up, because Simon had rented the room the year before they moved in and set a stable point. I think DiMaggio felt guilty about the whole thing, because legend has it that he sent a dozen roses to her crypt three times a week after she committed suicide, right up until he died in the 1990s. Only, that’s not entirely true. DiMaggio sent roses once a week. Simon, determined to outdo him, set up a standing order with the same florist. I don’t think he ever managed to screw up the nerve to even speak to Monroe before she died, but he had an active imagination, a CHRONOS key, and he was a bit of a voyeur.”
“Ick.”
“And no,” she says, “since I suspect you’re wondering. He tried with me exactly once, when he’d had too much to drink and struck out with the singer he was fixating on at some nightclub. But in addition to smokes from the future, I picked up a little gadget that gave Simon Rand a nasty jolt of electricity. I think the real thing that kept him from pushing it further was that while he was recovering from the shock, I told him if he ever touched me that way again, I’d go back to when my father could still use the medallion and he’d have to explain himself. There may also have been something in there to suggest that he’d be dining on his own testicles, because I was mad as hell. But I think it was less the physical threat and more that he needed a reminder that I’m Kiernan Dunne’s daughter. Simon is, as my mom would say, one sick puppy, but he loves my dad.”
She cranks the window slightly to flick out a bit of ash. “Sorry. I’m rattling on. But I haven’t had anyone I could discuss this with since . . . well, since the relationship that Simon managed to end by constantly popping in with demands on my time. And, yeah, I could talk to my dad about it, but any time I mentioned it, I could tell he just felt guilty that he couldn’t be the one keeping Simon occupied. That it was wrecking my life. Because it was wrecking my life.”
“But, eventually, Simon did jump forward and do his part to start the Culling like Saul asked, right?”
“Yes. I jumped ahead to when they were building the Sixteenth Street Temple in DC and set a stable point in what would eventually be Patrick Conwell’s office. And every time Simon popped in with some great new trip we needed to go on, the first thing I’d do was check that stable point. He was always there, exactly where my dad said he was at the end. And because he was still there, I followed him to another Yankees game. Another bar. Another Broadway show. Because I was scared that if I didn’t, I’d check that stable point and he wouldn’t be there. That he would undo it. That he’d change something and wreck everything my mom and dad worked for, and then we’d end up with God only knows how many millions of people dead in the distant future, when I’ll either be getting ready to blow out the candles on my one-hundred-and-third birthday cake or be dead myself. Probably the latter, since I’ve managed to squeeze about seven years into the past five, between my actual life and time-tourist duty.”
Clio takes another drag on the cigarette and smiles, although there’s something a little crazed about her expression. “And that is why I’m celebrating. It’s all over now, and I can move on. Dealing with Simon Rand cost me a hell of a lot, and I don’t just mean my time.” She pushes the pack of smokes toward me and taps the paper stuck inside the wrapper. “Check that out.”
I reach inside and extract what is indeed a ticket. New York Yankees, Inc. Yankee Stadium. Grandstand Admission: $1.10.
“That’s for game 115 of the 1940 season, against the Indians. I was supposed to meet Simon outside the stadium a half hour prior to the game. He didn’t show. Which has never happened before. I thought maybe he’d finally decided to get it over with, finish Saul’s task and take whatever consequences followed. But then I get back to my boardinghouse in Chicago and find a message from Dad to call home. After he explained about the meeting with you tonight and asked if I could jump over and join them, I got to wondering again about Simon’s absence. So I checked the stable point for some of the other dates we’ve been at Yankee Stadium. I checked the box seats he bought. I checked the standard stable point on Broadway where I meet him when he wants to take in a show. And I didn’t find him there, either. I’m missing, too, which is weird and makes my head hurt, because I have excruciatingly clear memories of those trips. But I also sort of remember not making them.”
“Simon must have been outside a CHRONOS field when the shift happened.”
“Yeah. I have a hard time imagining him without the key, though. And I don’t know how this affects the timeline. Simon played a role in the Culling, and everything my mom and dad did, and . . . God, I still have to tell Dad.” Clio’s smile is gone now. “They grew up together on the Cyrist Farm, and they were like brothers at one point. I don’t know if he’ll be happy or sad. Probably a bit of both.” She stops and shudders. “If this had happened three weeks ago, Dad wouldn’t have been under a key,
either. Mom was so freaked out about me living in Chicago that he gave me the spare key, the one he’d been wearing just as a precaution since Aunt June died.”
“June? Was she at the Cyrist Farm, too?”
She nods. “At various times, yes.”
“I met her when I accidentally figured out how to use the key. She was your aunt?”
“No. That’s just what we kids called her. She lived with us until she died about nine years ago. I think she missed being a doctor, but her credentials were from something like 2025, so I doubt they’d have been much use in 1912. She was the doctor for all of the Pru babies on the Farm. Did you know about that?”
“Some,” I say. “I’ve read your mom’s diaries. Well, a few of them were her diary entries. Most of them were from Kate . . . I mean, Kate Pierce-Keller.”
She reduces her speed a bit as the lights of a small town come into view up ahead. “Oh. You mean Other-Kate.”
I have to chuckle. “Funny. That’s what she calls your mom.”
“And that’s what my mom calls her. Which shouldn’t be a surprise, really, given that they’re basically carbon copies.”
It hits me then that Kate Dunne is almost certainly the only version of Kate in this reality. The fact that the Dunnes were under a key prior to 1941 is the only thing that protected them. I haven’t checked to be certain, but Jarvis said that Nora doesn’t exist. Katherine never owned the house, and I’m pretty sure if I scroll back in time on the stable point in my bedroom, I’ll see it empty throughout. All that’s left of Kate are the items protected inside the house, the books her son tried to save from the previous timeline, and her diary entries. Even if we win this game, the odds of restoring the exact set of circumstances that will allow me to see Nora or my mother again seem very slim. I feel a rush of grief, not just for them, but also for Kate. After listening to her rants about the Cyrists and CHRONOS, and spending hours watching her as she sat on the couch in my room just days before her death, it feels like I knew her.
“I only gave Dad back the spare medallion because Simon found . . . this . . .” She pulls up the edge of her skirt to reveal a garter. The medallion attached to it is inside a leather pouch, but I can still see faint dots of amber light along the seams.
When she releases the hem of her skirt, her hand is shaking. “Oh, damn it. He knew. He knew.”
She yanks the wheel sharply to the right and pulls onto the shoulder. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and I can’t help but marvel at her rapid reversal of mood. For several minutes, her body shakes with sobs. I have no idea what to say to comfort her, so I just pat her arm and wait for it to end. I’m not even sure why she’s so distraught. From her comments a few minutes ago, it was pretty clear that she hated the guy.
When she finally pulls herself together, she yanks her CHRONOS key out of her sweater and begins scanning through stable points. I can’t see what she’s looking at, and for once, I’m kind of glad, because it feels like I’d be invading her privacy. I just stare at the rain drizzling down the window and try not to think about the fact that I really need to get back to my own time.
After a moment, she puts the key away. “He’s not there. But he wasn’t at any of the other places I know he went, either. I can’t prove it or disprove it, but I think the son of a bitch actually . . .” She bites her lower lip. “I think this was Simon’s spare key. The only thing that saved him from being erased in Conwell’s office was the fact that he was wearing a spare.”
There’s a very long silence, and then she puts the car back into gear and pulls back onto the road. “When we left Seneca Falls, my plan was to tell you that there was one condition on my offer to be one of these observers. I know the time period, almost certainly better than anyone on your team. I want to help. And if you have only two days, you’re going to need my help. But . . . my folks unfortunately raised me to be honest, so I was going to tell you up front that I had an additional motive. My first priority would be to win this stupid game and restore the timeline. But if there was any way at all to accomplish it, I also planned to make sure Simon Rand bloody well stayed erased. And now I find out he’s probably the only reason my dad still exists.”
∞
GENEVA, NEW YORK
AUGUST 23, 1966
Kate was right. The bus is late.
When Clio dropped me off around nine thirty back in 1935, the bus station, which is really more of a bus stop, was closed for the evening. I scrolled through to three o’clock today, and then continued viewing the spot in one-minute increments until it finally pulled in just outside the gas station, around a quarter of four. I set a local point behind the ice machine on the side of the building. Clio then transferred the stable point at her parents’ house to my key, and I pulled up the point in the foyer at the house in Bethesda, but she said that it was already on her key. I seriously doubt any of them have been idly surveilling my house nearly two hundred years in the future. But I will definitely not be going down to the kitchen clad only in my undies the next time I get a craving for a midnight snack.
I blink into a bright, warm, and breezy morning. It occurs to me as I open my eyes that I should really have waited not simply for the bus but to see Jack get off the bus. The sound of the shots fired at the Peabody come rushing back, the memory of my heart pounding as we ran for the back door. Jack would have had to change buses twice, first in Nashville. Had another sniper been waiting? For that matter, is a sniper waiting here? The bastards piggybacked on my jumps once. What’s to stop them from doing it again?
Those thoughts had barely surfaced yesterday. I walked down the rain-soaked streets of 1935 Seneca Falls without thinking once about snipers lying in wait, following me in their scope from some hidden perch. True, I was focused on my task, but I’ve still got plenty on my plate. No, the main reason I’m thinking these things right now is that I’m more afraid of someone killing Jack than I am of someone killing me. I lost my father six months ago. Now Nora and my mom are gone. Jack is all I have. Well, I have Thea, too, I guess. But given her connection to the Cyrists, I’m not entirely sure whether that belongs in the positive or negative column.
The flag flying at the bank across the street isn’t doing much to calm me down, either. It’s the first one I’ve seen in this altered version of the country. Tyson told us at the restaurant yesterday that the US had been divided into economic zones, but he didn’t say how many. Twenty, apparently, given the number of stars on the flag, arranged in five even rows of four.
Then the door opens. Jack steps out, squinting against the afternoon sun, and I hurry toward him. Given the dark direction my thoughts traveled a moment ago, it makes me nervous to see him standing out in the open, nervous to be standing out in the open. I try to relax when Jack pulls me into his arms, to breathe him in and be content that we’ve made it this far. But I’m still bracing for the crack of a rifle.
“They said no?” he asks.
“What? No. I’m just . . .” I pull in a steadying breath and nod toward a small convenience store across the road. “Kate will be here shortly. I’ll just feel better when we’re not standing out here in the open.”
Of course, I’m not entirely certain that Kate will be here. We’re three decades and a time shift away from the point where she made that agreement. She could have changed her mind. She could have followed through on her idea of spiriting her family away to Canada.
We cross the road and enter a small store across the street with hand-lettered signs in the windows. Jack ducks inside while I stand at the doorway watching for Kate. After a minute, he comes back with two sodas. “I was looking for something without sugar or unsafe chemicals, but that’s apparently not an option. The cashier said if I wanted water, there was a fountain over by the bathrooms at the gas station.”
He hands me one of the dark-green bottles labeled Squirt. Is this a product that spans both realities or one of those niche items that only exists in one? I take an experimental sip. It’s actually not bad. De
finitely better than the Dr. Pepper I grabbed the last time I was in 1930s New York. We sit on a bench outside the store, and I bring him up to speed on events since he got on the bus.
“And you think Clio will be an asset?” he asks when I reach the end.
“I do, although I’m beginning to think the idea that we can put this timeline completely back on track is naive, to say the least. The books in our library back in Bethesda seem to suggest that we’re several realities away from the original where I somehow assist Alex and RJ in forming CHRONOS.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I already know what he’s going to ask. “Yes. I checked the anomalies list for Elizabeth Forson and her clones. They never exist in this timeline.”
“Well, that’s good news, right? No new genetics war?” Jack would never have been pulled into all of this, and we likely would never have met, if not for the fact that his father was trying to avert a war he was convinced would kill millions of people.
