Now, Then, and Everywhen (Chronos Origins)

by Rysa Walker

  The fact that I screwed that up, that I put myself at even a slight risk of getting shot when there was a much safer alternative, reminds me that I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Katherine Shaw had years of training with CHRONOS. Kate had the advantage of that training secondhand, with Katherine as a teacher. All I have are their diaries. I am in so far over my head that I might as well be back off the coast of Estero Island, staring at that underwater crypt.

  I push the controls forward to noon on the 24th, about seven hours before the concert begins. The marchers won’t arrive for a few more hours. As soon as I see that no one is watching, I step out of the tunnel and walk quickly toward Stephens Street. I set three locations in front of the house, which I can now see has a For Rent sign in front. When I’m done, I walk around the block and set three more so that I’ll be able to see if anyone goes through the backyard. Then I walk back down to the hospital on Fairview Avenue. There’s a bus stop, and someone left a newspaper behind. I can sit here and pretend to read while I’m watching through the key to see who goes in and out.

  The first thing I do is scan forward to 9:22 p.m. That’s definitely the house where the sniper was hiding. It looks like the shots are coming from the attic. Then I start scrolling through backward, to see when the sniper enters.

  An elderly couple joins me on the bench for a bit. They chat about doctors and the woman’s next appointment, then catch the bus when it arrives. A few minutes later, a man approaches from the same direction. I can see from the corner of my eye that it’s the guy I saw yesterday with the CHRONOS key.

  Folding the newspaper tightly around my own key, I pretend to be engrossed in reading something called Hints from Heloise on the best way to poach an egg. I feel his eyes on me, but he doesn’t stop. When he reaches the end of the block, he turns right, onto Stephens Street.

  I quickly scan forward on the key, and, sure enough, five minutes later, he’s standing outside the door of the house with the triple-peaked roof. A neatly dressed middle-aged woman is with him. She opens the door and lets him in, then begins walking at a rapid pace toward Oak Street, like she’s running late.

  He definitely wasn’t carrying the weapon that the newspapers said was used in the shooting. Jarvis pulled up photos of that rifle. It was more than a meter long, and there’s no way it would have fit inside his coat. I suppose the gun could already be in the house. But that doesn’t really fit with the woman unlocking the door for him.

  At this point, I can’t rule out the possibility that we’re on the same side. I also can’t rule out the possibility that he’s planning to kill five people tonight. But either way, Mr. CHRONOS Key and I need to have a little chat.

  ∞25∞

  TYSON

  MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA

  MARCH 24, 1965

  I come to slowly, drifting in and out. It doesn’t take long for me to remember what happened—the blood on the floor and my aching head bring the answer crashing back pretty quickly.

  I’m relieved to see that it’s still daylight, although that doesn’t really narrow it down that much. My best guess is that it was around one fifteen when I climbed up here. It’s not quite one thirty now, according to the Timex on my right wrist. I vaguely remember yanking that arm up in an attempt to shield my head, and apparently it did absorb some of the hit. A thin crack runs across the glass face, but the hands are still moving merrily along. I’ll just have to hope that means the other equipment inside the watch is still working, since there really isn’t a way for me to check it out.

  I push myself up to sitting and lean back against the damned trunk that cracked my head. A tentative exploration reveals a cut running along the back of my head, near the base of my skull. It’s bleeding, but not badly. Should be something that the CHRONOS med can patch up in a couple of minutes. And maybe they can give me something for the headache and dizziness.

  As I’m reaching for my key, someone sneezes loudly.

  I startle, and even that small movement sends a bolt of pain through my skull. “What the fuck?”

  A woman’s voice says, “Don’t move.”

  When I turn toward the attic door, the girl from the bus stop is sitting next to one of the boxes, pointing a device at me. It looks more like there are two of her sitting there, however, overlapped. Two devices pointed at me. Two of everything in the attic.

  And two overlapping versions of my pistol in her lap.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that it will clear my vision. But everything is still blurred, almost doubled. The one thing I can see, however, is a faint purple glow coming from beneath her shirt. She has the key in some sort of case, but it doesn’t fully shield the light.

  “Why are you here?” she asks.

  “I’m here on official CHRONOS business. What year are you from?”

  Her back stiffens slightly, and she glances down at the weapon in her hand. “I’m asking the questions. You’re answering. What year are you from? And . . . what color is the light for you?”

  I don’t respond for a moment, trying to figure out how to handle the situation. It’s possible that she’s one of the two historians that Angelo warned me about, who were with the last stage of the march. But she doesn’t match the picture at all, and the marchers aren’t due to arrive for another couple of hours, so I don’t think so. She’s definitely not one of the five people with CHRONOS keys that I saw the day King was killed, but then neither was Campbell and he’s here. I’m not sure why she’s asking the second question, though. I mean, sure, that’s the CHRONOS equivalent of the 1970s What’s your sign? But I can’t imagine how the information could be important enough to her that she’d ask while she has a weapon pointed at me and there’s blood running down my neck.

  But maybe it was a smart move, because it’s the oddity of the question that makes me decide to just tell her the truth. Well, that and the fact that my head is throbbing too badly to come up with a decent lie. “I’m from 2304. We have a . . . situation that I’m trying to resolve. And the light is purple for me. What color is it for you?”

  Her shoulders seem to relax when I say it’s purple, although she seems a little confused by my slightly snarky tone on the last question.

  “It’s orange. An amber color like a caution light. And I’m coming from 2136.”

  I snort. “That’s not even a good . . . lie,” I begin, and then realize that I don’t know for certain that the date she gave is impossible. Rich, Katherine, and I spent the short amount of time we had checking out the changes that were most relevant for these jumps. I didn’t check on CHRONOS history, and I don’t know if the others did, either. So I don’t really know when the program started in this timeline. “Would you mind telling me why you’re here?”

  “Because someone is going to jam a rifle through that metal grate over there,” she replies, jerking her head toward the ventilation window, “and kill five people over at St. Jude tonight. And I still think there’s at least a slight possibility that you’re the someone who will do that.”

  I glance down at the gun in her lap. “They weren’t killed with a pistol, though, were they? It was a Remington pump-action. Thirty-aught-six. The shots will start at 9:22:38. And you’ll be standing between those two Quonset huts near the field when they do.”

  Even with double vision I can tell she’s surprised I know that.

  “If you’re not the sniper, why are you up here?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Could ask the same of you. Listen, you don’t happen to have a handkerchief or anything inside that purse, do you? I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m bleeding.”

  She shakes her head. “Sorry. And yes, I actually thought you were dead. How long were you out?”

  “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes. I’m Tyson Reyes, by the way.”

  “Madison Grace.”

  “Oh. So, we’re going with bullshit names. Fine. I’m Abraham Lincoln.”

  There’s a long, silent standoff, and then I say, “Listen, whoever the hell yo
u are, I’m up here trying to find out for certain who does kill those five people, so I can prevent it. I think I know who it is, but the guy has a lot of political pull in my time and . . . I need solid proof. I set a stable point over there by the window. If you’ll let me check my key . . .”

  “If I let you check your key, you’ll jump back to CHRONOS or wherever. And then I’ll have to track you down all over again, so . . . no.”

  “Why didn’t you just take the key when you swiped my gun?” I ask.

  “Because you might not be the sniper. You might be an ally. And I’ve just seen someone get his memory wiped in a time shift.” She’s quiet for a moment, then tugs on the cord around her neck and pulls her key from a small pouch. “But I suppose we could risk it for a moment. Toss me your key, and I’ll transfer the stable point.”

  “First, how do I know you’ll give it back? And second, it doesn’t work that way. It’s my key. I have to transfer the point.”

  That’s something anyone would know before beginning field training. Which now has me worried that Angelo is right about the technology being used for time tourism in the future.

  Or she could be telling the truth. I stare at her face for a moment, trying to get the images to resolve so that I can see her more clearly. Madison Grace was the most reclusive of the three inventors, but there are a few photographs. She was a lot older in those pictures, though. Plus the attic is dimly lit and my vision is shot to hell right now.

  She sneezes again and wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “You outweigh me by at least fifty pounds. Even bleeding from that cut on your head, I’m pretty sure you could overpower me, so I’m not coming close enough for you to take my weapon.”

  It’s probably more like sixty pounds, and rationally, I know she has a point. But my head hurts and I don’t have the patience for her annoying rationality. “Then we’re at an impasse, aren’t we? Guess we’ll just wait here and see if Morgen Fucking Campbell walks through the goddamn door.”

  Her eyes widen when I say Campbell’s name. “He doesn’t have the CHRONOS gene.”

  “If you’re Madison Grace from 2136, how do you know Morgen Campbell? There are no stable points after the mid-2100s.”

  “I don’t know him personally.” She’s quiet for a long while, and her expression shifts several times, like she’s trying to think through every angle. Finally, she says, “You say you’re with CHRONOS, and if I tell you too much, it could screw up the timeline even worse than it already is. I mean, probably not in 2136. But things could be really different in your time. So, let’s just say I found a couple of diaries and Campbell’s name was mentioned. He seemed like a pompous, egotistical ass, but I can’t say I imagined him to be the type to get his hands dirty with actual murder. And both of the diaries made it very clear that he does not have the CHRONOS gene. I suppose that could have changed in this new timeline, but that explanation doesn’t work if he’s the one who changed it. He would have already had to be able to time travel in order to do that, right?”

  “Right,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I actually am on that point.

  “Why do you think the sniper is Campbell?”

  “Because I’ve been following a group of Klansmen who seem to be connected to the time shift.”

  “Klansmen? Like . . . the actual KKK?”

  “Yeah. And Campbell—a younger version of Campbell, at any rate—was with them last night. Said he had a buddy he could hire to pick off a few of the marchers. And maybe he does have a buddy, or maybe Campbell has just decided to travel back a few hundred years and hunt people, instead of terrorizing animals on a game reserve like he usually does. Why did you ask what color the key is for me? I didn’t get the sense that was idle chitchat.”

  “It wasn’t. We have a theory about how the timeline was broken. Not who broke it, but how.” She sneezes again, twice. “Oh hell, just check the damn key and find out if Campbell’s the sniper. I can tell you about our theory once we’re out of here. You’re bleeding and I’m tired of breathing in all this dust.”

  I center the key in my hand, thinking that she’s played this well, although I’m not sure it was intentional. Even if I were tempted to blink back to CHRONOS now, I’m not likely to do it until I find out what she knows. I glance down at the key and the display pops up. But it’s blurred like everything else. I squeeze my eyes tight, rub them, and then try again.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say I have a mild concussion. Everything is blurry. Doubled, almost. You can either throw me your key and I’ll transfer the stable point, or come close enough for me to tap the key to mine.”

  “Yeah. Like I’d give you my bloody key and strand myself in 1965.” She stares at me for a long time, clearly trying to gauge whether I’m lying. Then she taps the device she’s holding. “Fine. I had this set to stun. Now it’s at max and my thumb will be on the button.”

  She begins sliding across the floor toward me, stirring up dust as she goes. When she’s close enough, she stretches her key out toward mine, keeping her tiny little gun pointed at me. There’s a dark red smear on her sleeve. Blood. My blood.

  I really hope she doesn’t sneeze while her thumb is on that thing.

  Fortunately, there’s not much to navigate in transferring a stable point, although I still manage to transfer the wrong one the first time. Once I’m done, she slides to her original spot on the floor. I lean back against the footlocker and close my eyes, dizzy and a bit queasy from even that mild exertion.

  “What does he look like?” she says as she pulls up the display. “All I remember is a vague description of him as a fat gox, and I really don’t know what that means.”

  “Like I said, he’s younger. Thinner, but still pretty beefy. Dark hair, cut short. He’s probably wearing a red signet ring. And he’ll be carrying a CHRONOS key.”

  After a moment, she says, “It’s two people. They both have CHRONOS keys. Both have those rings you mentioned, too. The other one is a short, thin guy. He has the rifle.”

  “What time do they come in?”

  “Three nineteen. Which makes sense. St. Jude is crawling with security forces once the marchers arrive around four. I think they’d notice someone carrying a gun that large.” There’s a pause as she scans forward. “They both jump out at three twenty-five. The short guy sets a stable point and . . .” Another, much longer pause. “He’s back at nine twenty. Alone. And yeah, he’s definitely the shooter.”

  Her eyes move slowly to the right, not the quick jerk you use when swiping, but the slow and steady motion of panning the stable point. “Most of the boxes have been moved to the other side of the attic door, except for a few that are where you are right now. The other boxes are stacked on top of each other, not scattered around.”

  “Why did they take the time to do that?” I ask.

  “I don’t think they did. You can’t use the key. You said you’re seeing double, and you’re covered in blood. Getting you out of here is going to be a little problematic.”

  She has a very good point. One that I’d like to imagine I’d have thought of myself if I weren’t dizzy and bleeding.

  “Well, if you’re not the sniper, I guess you’re an ally,” she says. “And you’re the only ally I have who can actually time travel, so I’d better start moving boxes. Otherwise, you’re going to be victim number one.”

  Five minutes and several sneezes later, she’s relocated most of the boxes to the side of the attic opposite from the vent the sniper will use. She saves one extralong box and pulls it toward me.

  “What’s that one for?” I ask.

  “To cover up the blood. Hopefully. I’ll get something to wipe it up, but there will likely be a wet spot on the wood. Are you still bleeding?”

  “A bit.” I press my hand to the back of my head. “It seems to have slowed.”

  “Good. Otherwise, you’re going to leave a trail. Come on. Your palace awaits.”

  She ends up having to
help me walk. I’m so off-balance that we nearly fall twice.

  I sink into the corner and take deep breaths, fighting back nausea. “Thank you,” I say once I’m steady enough to speak. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have made it out of here. How long do we have before they arrive?”

  She checks the key and then sets a stable point. “About an hour. Be right back. I’m going down to move the ladder back against the closet wall. And do what I can to hide the blood . . .”

  I close my eyes and rest my head against one of the wooden beams. There are some scuffling noises and some cursing as she fights with getting the sticky attic door to open, several loud sneezes, and then she’s gone. When she pops back in, her shirt is clean and there’s a cloth bag over her shoulder. She puts it down next to me and pulls out a first aid kit, a jug of water, a small pill container, and a few other items.

  “My virtual assistant says that your symptoms do indeed sound like a concussion. This is pretty pathetic, as painkillers go.” She hands me the pills. “But my friend Lorena said anything stronger might interfere with your ability to use the key. She said the same about the antihistamine I wanted to take, so you’ll have to put up with me sniffling. But these pills should help with the swelling, too.”

  “Is this Lorena a doctor?” I ask as I pop three of the pills and wash them down with some water from the jug.

  The girl laughs. “Technically, I guess, since she has a PhD. She’s a geneticist. But her . . . husband got a mild concussion last year when he tripped on the soccer field.”

  Her face falls slightly when she mentions the geneticist’s husband. I suspect there’s a story there.

  “This may sound like a stupid question,” she says, “but I could have sworn both of your eyes were blue when I saw you yesterday. Were you wearing lenses?”

  “Yes. Are they out?”

  “Just one,” she says, tapping below her left eye. “Should I go look for the other one?”