by Laura Martin
“And why do you believe you’d fail?” he asked.
“Experience,” I said with a shrug. “I failed my simulation again today. I’m pretty terrible under pressure.”
Green sniffed. “Well, it seems to me that if you’re bad at something, you should take every opportunity to practice it. Don’t you agree, cadet?” With that he turned and disappeared back through the door Elliot had just gone through.
I muttered something that I hoped sounded like a thank-you and exited the building. The sun was already as good as set, the last wisps of day sliding across the grassy courtyard we affectionally called the Mall to be replaced by the lengthening shadows of twilight. I let out a breath, releasing some of the tension of the last few minutes with it. My shoulders relaxed, and I stood for a second on the wide concrete steps, letting the panoramic view of the campus calm my buzzing nerves. My brain silently named each of the large stone buildings that surrounded the Mall—the Roosevelt Building, the Revere Building, and the Edison Building with its impressive clock tower. They were as familiar to me as my own reflection, and the normalcy of the sight went a long way toward calming me down. It really was beautiful. The air had a heaviness to it, making the smell of fresh-mown grass almost overpowering, and a quick glance at the sky showed an approaching storm. Good. I liked storms. They were wild and unpredictable, and they played by their own rules. Something I both envied and admired.
Set apart from “normal” citizens for our own protection and theirs, our gated, walled, and closely guarded campus complex sprawled across an entire island in the middle of the ocean. I had no idea which ocean, because where exactly we were situated on the globe was a secret I wasn’t allowed in on. Although I had some educated guesses.
Government funding for the Glitch Initiative continued to pour in daily, and the grounds showed it. Elegant fountains dotted the property, looped and connected by polished concrete walkways edged with well-manicured landscaping that gave a historic university feel to an otherwise state-of-the-art facility. Behind the classic building facades of brick and stone was some of the most intricate technology known to man, all developed to help facilitate the continuation of the Glitch Initiative. Everyone had seen what the future looked like if time travelers were allowed to muck about in history unregulated and unchecked.
Well, I amended, they hadn’t exactly seen it, since enough of the original time travelers had had the conscience and forethought to realize what was happening and fix things before everything went too haywire. According to the legend, the founder of the Academy had taken a complete set of World History books back in time and hidden them in some remote mountain cave. So when things went off the rails, so to speak, all he’d have to do was go back to those history books tucked safely in the past, and check to see if the current history matched. If it didn’t, a mission was dispatched to fix it and stop the Butterfly from doing their damage. Thankfully, we now had more high-tech ways of keeping the proper timeline documented so that a Butterfly couldn’t change things without our knowledge. Mom had tried to explain how that worked once, but it had given me a splitting headache, so she’d stopped. What mattered was that the general public didn’t have a problem pouring millions of dollars into training and overseeing Glitchers as long as it kept the future intact. Well, no one was complaining outside the Academy at least. Inside, I knew I couldn’t be the only one who sometimes felt like the lush green lawns and immaculate buildings were just well-disguised cages. But, as I’d been reminded on multiple occasions by my mom, the security of the future was more important than satisfying a twelve-year-old girl’s wanderlust.
The large clock tower to my left started chiming, and I hurried down the path. I’d gone only a few steps when I noticed something gray shoved into one of the well-manicured hedges, and despite my preoccupation I paused to grab it. It turned out to be two drab gray shirts, each sporting a weird number on the pocket. They looked like Glitch costumes, although I had no idea what historical event they might belong to, which wasn’t all that surprising for me. Still, I didn’t want whatever cadets had lost these to get in trouble, so I shoved them under my arm and picked up my pace. I could drop them by the Academy laundry on my way home, but I would have to hustle. The campus crowd was already thinning out, and I didn’t want another teacher delaying my dinner any further with questions about why I’d lingered after the last recap. Although it already felt miles away, the confrontation with Elliot and the letter were taking up all my available brain space. Man, what I wouldn’t give to recap that. To sit back and watch the scene play out in the detail that only a recap could provide. But, of course, that was impossible. What mattered now was figuring out how to get that letter back from Elliot, preferably before he realized what he had and turned me in.
Chapter Three
Elliot
Regan Fitz was a stuck-up brat. She always had been, and she always would be. Of course, if I’d grown up the commander’s daughter, I might be a stuck-up brat too. I scowled out of Green’s classroom window as I watched her turn right toward her impressive brick house on the hill. I’d always wanted to see inside that house, but of course I’d never gotten an invite. Whatever, someday I’d be the one who lived there, and Regan “Too Dumb for Her Own Good” Fitz would be a nobody. I put my hand in my pocket and felt the weird texture of the envelope she’d almost taken me out trying to get back, and I wondered again why I’d bothered to hide it from Green. It had been a perfect opportunity to really stick it to Fitz right before leveling up. But I was too nosy, and I’d have given just about anything to find out what made all the blood drain out of her face like that. As I watched her disappear around the corner, I felt an old familiar jealousy wrap itself around my chest, and I momentarily regretted not throwing her under the bus when I had a chance. I tightened my grip around the letter, crumpling it mercilessly in my hand before realizing what I was doing and releasing it.
“Cadet Mason,” came a voice behind me, and I jumped guiltily and immediately pulled my hand out of my pocket. I turned to see Professor Green staring past me and out the window over my shoulder. “You aren’t a fan of Cadet Fitz,” he said. It was a statement, not a question. I shifted uncomfortably, not quite sure what to do with that. Green was my least-favorite professor. He was direct to a fault and made me feel like my skin was two sizes too small. When he looked at me it was as though my skull was the same clear glass as the window, allowing him to see all my thoughts swirling around inside my head. Every other professor was happy with their yes, sirs and no, ma’ams, but Green had never been impressed with me. Not when I aced every test he gave or finished at the top of every simulation.
“I’m not sure how I should answer that, sir,” I finally said when the silence had begun to stretch uncomfortably.
“You don’t have to,” Green said. “The boxes that need to be moved to the third floor are over here.” I turned and followed him to the corner storage closet. He threw open the door and flicked on the lights to reveal stacks of dust-covered boxes.
“That’s a lot of boxes,” I said.
“Then you’d better get a move on,” he said, turning to sit down at his desk. I stared at that stack and felt a new fury bubble in my veins. Why was I here and not Fitz? She’d been just as guilty as me for causing a disturbance in the hall. Probably even more so. I picked up the first box and turned to see Green still studying me, and I quickly rearranged my face into one of passive obedience.
“She isn’t here because she doesn’t need to build character,” he said, and I paused on my way out the door. What was this guy? A mind reader?
“And I do, sir?” I said.
“She has her weaknesses, and you have yours, whether you’re willing to admit it or not. Moral fiber is something that can’t be taught, but hard work helps some. Being the best isn’t always the best thing for one’s character. It will do you no good to be the best Glitcher at the Academy if your insides don’t match your outside.”
I had no idea what that meant,
but I mumbled something I hoped sounded like an agreement and headed out the door.
An hour later I’d hauled the last box out of Green’s room and up the three flights of stairs since the elevator was conveniently getting repairs. Part of me was sure Green had known that when he made me do the job, but maybe that was giving him too much credit. Shaking my head to rid myself of the storm cloud that seemed to have settled around my shoulders ever since my run-in with Little Miss Fitz, I hurried toward the student dorms. It was late, and if I didn’t hustle, the mess hall would be closed, and I’d be out of luck. With that in mind, I broke into a jog that ate up the quarter mile between the simulation building and my dorm in a matter of minutes.
My mind went back to the successful simulation I’d done that afternoon. It was over the Battles of Lexington and Concord, and I’d gone in disguised as a British solider. I wondered if it would ever get old seeing Paul Revere in the flesh. Probably not. Early American History was my favorite, and this simulation was one of the more advanced of the program since potential Butterflies were scattered over a large area. Which is probably why it was my favorite; there was nothing I loved more than a challenge. I smiled, thinking about how I’d caught my Butterfly in plenty of time, cuffed him, and made it out before major damage was done. It had been textbook. I hadn’t stayed back to watch the Recap to rub Regan’s failure in her face. That was just an added bonus. It really was the extra practice that I craved. If you wanted to be the best, you had to live and breathe this life, and if I could learn from my classmates’ mistakes and avoid making my own, all the better.
I reached the mess hall two minutes before it closed and earned myself a dirty look from Mrs. Smith, who was just walking over to the big metal double doors to lock them up for the night.
“Sorry,” I apologized as I flashed her one of my most winning smiles. “I got tied up. I’ll just grab something and bring it back to my room.”
“There isn’t much left,” she grumbled as she locked the door behind me lest anyone else sneak in and make her night longer.
“That’s okay,” I called, trotting over to where the large silver trays of food sat under warming lights. She was right. It was spaghetti night, which was always a favorite of mine, but the remaining sauce had dried out and burned onto the corner of the pan, which was fine because there were only a few stray noodles left anyway. There wasn’t even one lousy piece of garlic bread left. It looked like another cereal dinner. With a sigh, I grabbed a bowl and quickly filled it with the crumbly remains of some sort of bran cereal and grabbed a milk carton from the counter, ignoring the fact that it had lost its chill hours ago.
Turning toward the door again, I almost ran full force into Mrs. Smith, who stood with her arms crossed, watching me in disapproval. I barely managed to steady the bowl of cereal before it dumped all over my front. She studied me for another second, and I wondered if I was going to get chewed out for something when she sighed and held up a finger.
“Stay,” she said before turning and disappearing back into the stainless-steel labyrinth of the kitchen. I stayed. You didn’t mess with Mrs. Smith. She was scary. When I was a first year, I’d seen her make a cocky fifth year mop the entire mess hall because he had the audacity to start a food fight. She’d stood over him the entire time, her eyes narrowed and mouth pursed into a thin line, and the kid had practically shrunk five inches by the time it was all over. If she said to stay, I’d stay.
A moment later, she was back, a small foil packet in her hands. Without comment she confiscated my sad bowl of bran crumbs and handed it to me. It felt warm, hot even, and I looked up at her in surprise.
“A growing boy can’t grow on this,” she said, holding up the offending bowl like it was full of bugs and not cereal. “Now get back to your dorm. If you get caught in the halls after lights-out, I’m not vouching for you.” I stared at her another second in surprise, my fingers burning a little on the hot packet, before mumbling a thank-you and bolting for the door.
I made it back to my room in record time. Shutting the door behind me, I set the foil packet down on my desk before shucking off my Academy jacket and hanging it carefully in my closet. If everything went right, I’d be getting a new one tomorrow, red instead of green, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to keep my cadet jacket nice. I could still remember the day I’d been given it. Just like every other Academy kid, someone who had been entrusted to the Academy by my parents from birth, I’d grown up not owning much. I didn’t lack for anything—food, shelter, the basics—but nothing was ever really mine either. Every toy had to be shared; every outfit was given to me and then taken back once I’d outgrown it.
The jacket was the first thing I’d been given that was mine indefinitely, with my name embroidered in gold inside the collar. The first time I’d worn it I’d felt ten feet tall, like somehow making it this far made up for never having a real family. Unlike the rest of the kids on campus, I didn’t even have a picture of my parents, let alone a twice-yearly visit. All I knew about them was that they’d died shortly after turning me over to the Glitch program. Sometimes I’d catch myself staring at my hands and wondering if I’d inherited my long fingers with their thick knuckles from my dad, or I’d catch a glimpse of my nose in the mirror and wonder if I’d inherited its distinctive arch from my mother. I might learn everything there was to know about America’s history, but my own history was destined to stay a mystery forever. Whatever; it wouldn’t matter that I was one of the only kids without parents on parents’ day if I was the best. I shook my head, clearing the thoughts of my imaginary family away as I shut my closet door. Tomorrow, I’d get a new jacket with my name on it.
My stomach grumbled at me, and I turned to the foil packet. Inside I found a large portion of the lasagna that had been at dinner yesterday, reheated so the cheese stuck in gooey puddles to the foil. God bless Mrs. Smith. I popped a bite into my mouth with my fingers, having forgotten to grab a fork at the mess hall, before retrieving the letter from my pocket. Time to see what Fitz wanted me to hide from Professor Green. I wondered momentarily what I should make her do to get it back. Something humiliating, although, if I was lucky, the letter would contain something embarrassing. Something that would put her in her place, take her down a notch. I flipped over the letter to see her name again and felt something twist sickeningly in my stomach. I took another bite of lasagna even though I knew it wasn’t hunger, and for the first time I wished I hadn’t decided to mess with her. Something about this letter sent prickles up my arm and made me feel uneasy, but my curiosity got the better of me, and I unfolded it and read.
I don’t have much time, so I’m going to get right to the point. This letter is exactly what you think it is, but it’s going to be fine. I promise. You and Elliot Mason are going to have to get over yourselves. But even as I write this, I know you won’t. At least not right away. So here’s the deal. Whatever happens, Elliot can’t level up tomorrow. So many things hinge on that, but I don’t want to freak you out with any more information than I have to. Besides, if I tell you too much, things won’t unfold the way they need to, and I hate to break it to you, but there is no going back now. A lot of lives are at stake here, so don’t blow this one like you just blew your Lincoln simulation for the fifth time.
Oh. And you need to know this:
Behind the curtain.
Belowdecks.
When the window breaks, grab me.
Trust the door will open when it needs to.
The prototypes are a bust.
Grab the key card when you have a chance.
Don’t forget about the one in his pocket.
That’s all. Good luck. Don’t screw this up.
I blinked and then reread the message. There were only two things that were really clear about all this, and both of them made me feel like Mrs. Smith’s lasagna was going to come right back up again. The first was the most obvious—this was a Cocoon. It was illegal, and my name was on it. Not Regan’s. Although, I frowned, it
was obvious that a future version of herself had been the one to write it, but that wouldn’t hold up in Glitch court. Especially since she was the commander’s daughter. My name, however, was indisputable, and I felt a surge of anger. There was no way any future version of myself was chummy with Regan Fitz. Even if I was, what kind of person would put condemning evidence like this down on paper? The whole purpose of it seemed to be to mess up my sim test tomorrow, something that I was not going to let happen under any circumstances. I’d worked too hard.
I sat back and stared at the dull tan wall of the dorm room I’d called home ever since I could remember. If I got caught with a Cocoon, then all that extra training, the extra simulations, the hours and hours in the library researching, would be for what? Jail time? There were no second chances for a time-traveling criminal. The world had learned the hard way that ruthless justice was the only way to ensure that the past remained untampered with.
I reread the letter. My first instinct was to march right back out the door and find Fitz. My second instinct was to make the letter disappear. If there was no evidence, there was no crime. I could just pretend that I’d never seen my name written on a Cocoon, and I could stay on track to become the best Glitcher the Academy had ever seen. All of this went away if the letter went away. But the problem was that Fitz knew about the letter, if her overreaction to me taking it was any indication, which meant that my fate was in her entitled little hands.
Chapter Four
Regan
The house smelled like cheese and marinara sauce, and I had a piece of garlic bread in my mouth before I even registered that I’d reached for it. My stomach let out a little contented gurgle, and I reached for a second piece. I never had a chance. A familiar hand, slim and white with a small silver ring, darted out and smacked mine.
“Enough of that,” said Mrs. Ellsworth. I frowned at her, rubbing my stinging fingers as I shoved the piece of bread I’d been holding into my mouth before she commandeered it. In this kitchen, she was queen, and I was nothing.
