by Walker, Rysa
“But why would they do that?” Katherine asks. “Isn’t it more likely to be one of the leftist groups, given that the Japanese are allied with Hitler?”
“That’s what you’re supposed to think,” I say. “Or at least what they hope the police and reporters will think. Frame the other side as terrorists, and you can sway public sentiment in your favor. And they aren’t really allied with Hitler yet.”
“It could still be the communists, though,” Rich says. “Both sides were willing to engage in targeted violence. Either way, I think we may need to go to Café Society. You said something about the owner being a communist. He’s not, but . . .”
“Yeah. Lawrence Dennis said it’s his brother.”
“Exactly. There were widespread rumors that the club was a communist front. Josephson’s brother—Leo, Leon, something like that—was a member of the Communist Party. He wasn’t just a casual member, either. He got himself arrested in Europe in the mid-1930s, as part of a Soviet plot to assassinate Hitler. Rumor has it that the initial six thousand bucks in startup funds for Café Society was a loan from unspecified friends of Barney’s brother. And because most of his brother’s friends are communists, the House Un-American Activities Committee ends up assuming that the money was actually fronted by the US Communist Party. And it may have been. The CP’s underlying goals dovetailed nicely with Barney Josephson’s—they wanted a place where diverse people could mingle. But they were less interested in racial justice than in having a place where party members could openly associate with people they might be able to convert to the cause.”
“So . . . what’s wrong with that?” Madi asks. “I mean, if any other political party put up the money for those reasons, it wouldn’t be a problem, right?”
“Right,” Rich says. “If it was the Republicans or Democrats or virtually any other political organization, no one would have blinked an eye. But the US Communist Party is, by its international nature, linked to the party in the USSR. After the war, at least in our timeline, anti-Soviet sentiment becomes pretty intense. By 1950, Café Society was essentially blackballed into nonexistence. HUAC managed to wreck the careers of quite a few of its performers, too. And . . . there’s something else about it that’s bothering me. My brain is trying to connect some dots, but I can’t make out the pattern yet. I’m thinking I may go forward and see what I can find on the brother before we do anything else tomorrow. Madi’s digital assistant can probably pull up what I need to know, and we can figure out if a trip to Café Society is a good use of our time.”
“Works for me,” I tell him. “If we do visit the club, though, it will need to be on a date before my last visit. Otherwise, they’re going to remember I was there the night their doorman was killed. Okay, Madi. You’re next.”
“I’ll see if I can get in to speak with Einstein,” Madi says. “Alex has a list of days that he was at the World’s Fair. There were several of them just before the ceremony dedicating the Jewish Palestine Pavilion.”
“That sounds good.” I notice Katherine’s mouth tighten from the corner of my eye. When I realize why, I quickly add, “We’ll see what we can find out with the Universal Front first, and then I’ll come with you to see what we can discover about Einstein’s activities.”
Clio pulls a pill container out of the cabinet next to the stove. It has a childproof cap, so I would bet it’s not native to the 1930s. “These kick in after fifteen minutes or so,” she says, “and they’ll wear off fully in about six hours. I’ve used them. They won’t leave you groggy. So, if you think there’s any chance at all that you’re going to lie there staring at the ceiling, I’d suggest taking one now.”
I hold my hand out along with everyone else. I’m tired, but my nerves are still jangling, so I pop the pill and head off to the shower. I sponged away the blood earlier, but I can still feel the spot on my arm where the jacket clung to my skin. Yeah, it’s psychological, but a shower can’t hurt.
The medication is already starting to take effect when I crawl into the empty twin bed across from Richard a few minutes later.
“Sorry I was a jerk earlier,” Rich says. “But, just so you know, Katherine has probably already jumped out. She thought Saul was dead, and she just found out he’s not. So I’m pretty sure she’ll sleep there, not here. And Saul’s not working with us. I can’t say whether he’s actively working against us, but he’s lying.”
“Not surprised, but what brings you to that conclusion?”
“Katherine said Saul claimed he preempted a move by the Vipers. That they were planning to use Coughlin, but he captured their pawn.” He gives a sullen chuckle. “Their bishop, to be more accurate. But unless this is some extracurricular move they started after the time shift, it doesn’t make sense. First, the moves Team Viper made are what caused the time shift that erased CHRONOS and sent all of us off in search of what happened. We know that converting Coughlin wasn’t one of their three moves. So how did Saul preempt something he wouldn’t even have known about until it was a done deal? And second, based on what Madi told us, Alex has it narrowed down geographically to the fairgrounds, something that Saul even told Katherine was likely. And we know that Coughlin is converted before the Fair opens. So he’s lying to her . . . as fucking usual. The only question is why.” He rolls over and fluffs the pillow under his head. “Still can’t believe their Esther shot Marcy. And Alisa yanking her key. That’s just evil. Guess things are pretty different over there.”
I don’t respond, because I’m starting to get groggy and also because I don’t know if I agree. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s entirely possible that the Esther and Alisa from our timeline are equally as capable of evil, given the right set of circumstances, as their doppelgängers on Team Viper.
“And, Tyce? I didn’t say anything in front of the others, but . . . are you sure about the Universal Front thing? I mean, it’s one thing to go into that rally with Madi as part of a crowd. But showing up as a potential new recruit when they’re going to be scrutinizing you closely seems dangerous to me. You don’t have your lenses, and you don’t have any inside connections to vouch for you. I’d offer to go myself, but I don’t have the background knowledge, and they’d probably toss me out on my ear—or worse—within five minutes. I just think it’s too risky, especially given that you’ll be solo, because despite what you told Katherine, we both know you can’t take Madi in there.”
As much as I don’t want to admit it, he has a point. I’d probably be okay with a Klan group, even without the stupid lenses, because I know the lingo. I know the customs. And my southern drawl is a hell of a lot more convincing than my New York accent. “You’re right,” I admit. “Maybe we can find out what we need to stop the attack on the ambassador through viewing the locations alone. I’m just worried about the stupid style points. Undoing their moves seems more likely to score high than simply blocking them. And I can’t talk them out of it if I’m not inside.”
“We’ll just have to get creative in other ways,” Rich says. “Maybe the probability points.”
I’m not even sure how those work, but I don’t ask because I’m too close to sleep to follow his answer. As I drift off, Madi’s comment earlier tonight about it being unlikely that we’ll ever get our exact timeline back keeps echoing in my head, along with Clio’s remark about settling for the universe where people have frog tongues. Between that and the scene in the alley, my dreams are going to suck.
Maybe the timeline we end up with won’t be exactly the one we had before. Maybe we can break out of this stupid time spiral or whatever it is and create something better. But I promise myself one thing as I drift off to sleep. The reality we end up with will not be one designed by Team Viper. And it will not be one designed by Saul Rand.
FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID
MISSING AVIATRIX APPEARS NEXT DAY IN MIAMI
(Miami, Fla., March 5, 1934) Crowds stood waiting for several hours at the small airfield in Jacksonville on March 3rd, hoping to get a glimpse o
f acclaimed aviatrix Laura Houghtaling Ingalls. Miss Ingalls, who recently announced that she has “a yen” to fly the Andes solo, left Charleston at noon, piloting a Lockheed Vega destined for Jacksonville, but never arrived at the airport. Indeed, nothing was heard from the pilot until she landed in Miami, nearly 350 miles to the south, late yesterday.
Miss Ingalls declined to say where she had spent the night and dismissed several reports of a similar plane in the Key Biscayne area south of Miami. “Now, can’t I have one little secret?” she told reporters. “Put it down to anything you like. But not romance. That’s out. A friend gave me a six-shooter when I left New York, so I had to just dip off someplace and use it. I knew I would never have a chance to use it on the South American trip, so I went off, looking for adventure.”
Miss Ingalls is scheduled to depart for Havana on Thursday morning, before continuing on to the Yucatan.
∞21∞
KATHERINE
MIAMI BEACH, FLORIDA
FEBRUARY 13, 1939
The room is dark, except for the dim glow from the candles in wall sconces on either side of the bed and a pale shimmer of light from the plate-glass door that opens to the balcony. On a less cloudy night, you could probably see the moon and stars reflected on the ocean, but tonight, you can barely make out the waves.
I can hear them, though, crashing against the shore, almost but not quite in tempo with the soft music. Camille Saint-Saëns. It brings an instant smile. The song has been a favorite auditory aphrodisiac of ours since we took in a performance in Chicago in 1906, during a trip to see what elements of the 1893 World’s Fair, often known as the White City or the Expo, were preserved in the White City Amusement Park that had opened the previous year. (The answer: almost none.) While the title of the song, La Danse Macabre, might not exactly sound romantic, Saul had whispered suggestions that bordered on the obscene throughout most of the production. The end result was that we left the concert early, hurried through the bone-deep chill of the November night, and barely made it to our room at the Palmer House with our clothes intact.
Tonight, Saul is exactly where he was when I pulled up the stable point, seated in the center of the bed wearing absolutely nothing aside from a lecherous grin as he takes in my naked body. I smile and take a step toward him, and then his voice comes from directly behind me. “Happy Valentine’s Day . . . almost.”
Two hands slide down my arms to the bare skin of my waist. I scream, twisting out of his grasp, and when I turn to face him, I’m certain that I’ll see the scar running up the side of his face, and the false eye. But it’s just Saul looking back at me, concern in both of his entirely normal eyes. I look toward the bed, but that’s Saul, too. He’s wearing the same look of slight surprise and worry.
Both Sauls, almost in unison, say, “Oh, God. Kathy. I’m sorry.” Then, as if by unspoken agreement, only the Saul on the bed continues. “You thought I was him. The Saul from Team Viper. That didn’t even occur to me. I was just . . .” He shrugs. “This has been a common fantasy for a while, hasn’t it? I’m pretty sure we even talked about it at the Saint-Saëns concert that night.”
He’s right. We were curled up on the bed at the Palmer House, in the grip of what Saul often calls le petit mort and what other, less morbid souls call the afterglow. We talked, as couples often do, about our fantasies. Some were shared, others not so much. I’d jokingly told him that I wanted to make love in the giant Ferris wheel at the Expo. He’d informed me that I’d have to find another partner. And then he’d mentioned the splinter fantasy, claiming that he’d breezed through that test during training. He had a nice conversation with himself, shook his hand, and walked away without the slightest complication. I, on the other hand, had very nearly barfed on the way out the door after the mandatory chat with ten-minutes-later me and had stayed in my room for hours with a miserable headache.
“Can you imagine how much fun we could have? And why stop at just two?” he’d said, placing both of his hands, still cold from our dash through the November night, against my bare abdomen, and then, in quick succession, on my breast, my face, my legs, and all points in between as I giggled and tried to move away. “There would be hands absolutely everywhere.”
Saul II brushes my hair aside and presses his lips against my neck. His hands, his breath, are not cold now, but deliciously warm against my skin. “It was just never possible before,” he says, “given how they limited our use of the key. But now . . .”
“We don’t expect you to reciprocate,” Saul says as he walks toward us. “Although that would be interesting. But my friend here probably only has about ten minutes before he blinks into oblivion. So we should make good use of him.”
“Are you certain he’s the one who will vanish?” I ask, pulling in a ragged breath.
“I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
For a while, I’m able to close my eyes and forget. To pretend that it really is only the two of us in the room and Saul is just really . . . flexible. He didn’t intend this to unsettle me. And if by some miracle the controls had been lifted from our keys two weeks ago, it wouldn’t have unsettled me at all.
But by the time there are only two of us in the room, I’ve entirely lost track. I have no idea whether it’s Saul or the splinter who vanished. Although, come to think of it, I don’t know whether it was Saul on the bed in the first place. It shouldn’t matter. They’re both Saul. But it bothers me.
I get up and pull the needle from the phonograph and turn it off. “As a heads-up, this will be my last visit without one of the other team members until this is over. The other side has already shot at us, and Tyson saw them kill one of their own observers tonight. So for the next day and a half, at least, I’ll have a buddy in tow. Just in case we’re followed, I guess.”
“Followed how?”
“Tracking our jumps. That’s how they crossed over in the first place. They attached themselves to Tyson’s and Max’s signals.”
“And how did you figure that out?” Saul asks.
This question could definitely be a land mine, so I go with a vague answer. “We’re working with a temporal physicist. Someone Max knows. He said he might be able to block them if he could figure out which . . . universe, I guess? . . . they’re coming from. But he hasn’t had much luck.”
“So,” Saul says, leaning back against the upholstered headboard. “How did the rest of the team take the news that I somehow survived? I’m guessing poor Rich wasn’t too happy about it. He was no doubt thinking he might finally stand a chance.”
I catch myself just as I’m about to tell him they already knew. That could open up more questions about Madi, however, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea to go there. “They were happy, obviously. What did you think? You might not be Rich’s or Tyson’s favorite person, but they both know we need all the help we can get.” That’s not entirely true, and Saul probably knows it. At best, they’re cautiously optimistic, and to be honest, I get it. We don’t know if Saul’s actions will be judged as breaking the rules, plus it seems very much like he’s hoping not to simply reverse the timeline, but rather to have a timeline with a few added features, namely the Cyrists. Or maybe it’s another example of him acting impetuously, taking bold steps without thinking things through. Like he did just now with the whole splinter thing.
“You could have brought a buddy tonight,” he says with a little grin. “Only fair, since I did.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so. Which one are you, though? The one who was on the bed or the one who sneaked up behind me?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not really. I was just wondering which one disappeared.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Well, I know that.” I pretend to shrug it off, but it’s not easy. It may not be logical, but his little trick with the splinter troubles me now in a way it wouldn’t have before almost everyone I love was snatched away, courtesy of a group of people who are only slightly more addicted to The Game than Saul is.<
br />
Saul knows me well enough to sense that I’m bothered. He snatches a robe from the foot of the bed and stalks off to the bathroom. “You know, if you weren’t into the idea, you could simply have said so before. When did you become such a prude?”
I could tell him that it isn’t prudishness. But should I have to? Shouldn’t he have some basic understanding after more than five years together that this was not the best time to play doppelgänger games?
And I can’t shake the feeling that he did know it would frighten me. That he knew, and that was maybe even the part he liked best. I shiver, wishing there was another robe, or that I’d had the foresight to bring clothes with me, even if I wasn’t wearing them.
But I’d been so relieved to discover that the bedroom back in New York was empty that I hadn’t even thought about that. Clio took the room that her parents had slept in sporadically for the past few years while they were in the city doing our preliminary research, so the four of us had to share the remaining two rooms. I spent a good fifteen minutes listening to Madi breathing in the room we’re sharing, waiting until her sleep sounded deep enough that she wouldn’t notice if I blinked out to join Saul. But instead of becoming deeper, the rhythm of her breath simply stopped, and I turned to see nothing but slightly rumpled covers on the twin bed where she’d been lying only moments ago. At least I won’t have to worry about her ratting on me for disregarding the stupid buddy system, because I can do the very same.
Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue anyway. I could simply blink out, spend as much time as I wanted here, and then blink back with no one the wiser. But we’ll be syncing up our keys in the morning to make sure that we’re all on the same time. Otherwise, we could find ourselves thinking we still had time on the clock at the end of the game, only to discover that one of us had spent an hour or two extra somewhere along the line and the SimMaster was already flashing the words GAME OVER.
