by Laura Martin
“Cadet Fitz?” Professor Brown asked, and I glanced up to see everyone staring at me expectantly. I’d apparently been asked a question.
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling my face flush with embarrassment. “Could you repeat that, please?”
“I asked if you had any questions, seeing as this is your first simulation test,” she said.
There was the slightest titter of a laugh to my left, and Brown narrowed her eyes at the guilty cadet. The laughter cut off immediately, and I felt an embarrassed flush creep up my neck and into my ears, turning them beet red.
“No, ma’am,” I said, making sure not to look in my mom’s direction. If I was embarrassed, I’m sure she was too, although, knowing her, she would be sitting as cool as a cucumber. Why couldn’t I have inherited her unflappability instead of her hair color?
“If there aren’t any questions, please take your seats,” said Professor Brown. I sat down, swung my legs onto the supports, and put my arms on the armrests as a tech came forward to place the simulation wires with their sticky cold pads over my legs and arms. Elliot hesitated for a second before finally climbing into the chair next to mine, resigned. A moment later, the countdown began, and I hazarded a glance in my mom’s direction. She sat, the picture of a professional, but there was a tightness around her eyes that let me know she was a little worried. My vision went black. The simulation had begun.
Chapter Nine
Elliot
I opened my eyes in the past. When exactly in the past? I had no clue yet. Usually we had this information before a simulation began. We were told what event our simulation would be of, and then we were given the week to study and prepare for it. That was the part I was good at, the studying and preparing. Unfortunately, for a sim test we had no time to prep. It was all about thinking on our feet, about using our instincts and our training.
A quick glance down showed me that I was wearing fitted brown pants with high kneesocks and a white button-up shirt. I was in a room with a tall, soot-stained ceiling. A large furnace and bellows were set up at the far end of the room, complete with stacks of horseshoes and bits of iron. Okay, I thought as I worked to calm down my racing heart, I was in a blacksmith’s shop, and judging from the rudimentary-looking tools hanging on the wall, I was somewhere in the 1700s. My white shirt was smudged and dirty from sitting in the soot, and I brushed myself off and walked over to look out the window. The sun was just beginning to set, and the street outside was primitive, nothing more than packed dirt between poorly built wooden houses.
What historical event was about to take place that I had to keep intact? I looked around, hoping for a clue, but a second later I heard footsteps and a door being unlocked behind me. I barely had time to duck behind a large iron anvil before the door burst open and a tall man tumbled inside, quickly turning to lock the door behind him. That job done, he turned and looked around the dimly lit room, his blue eyes flashing in a pale frightened face. I slouched even lower, praying that the shadows would hide me. Apparently they did, because he sagged in relief before walking over and picking up a large crowbar. He tested the weight in his hands before discarding it for a smaller option. He moved around the space uneasily, and I had the distinct feeling that this wasn’t his blacksmith shop. So why was he here? And what was with the crowbar?
The man turned back to the door and stared at it expectantly. The white shirt he was wearing had large dark splotches of sweat under his arms, and he fidgeted from foot to foot. Man, this guy was twitchy. What was he up to? Thankfully he didn’t have to wait very long before a knock came at the door. Three short taps, a pause, and then three more taps, like it was some kind of code.
The man quickly opened the door so that more men could enter, bringing a cold gust of air in behind them. The group had a nervous energy that seemed to hum around them, and I scrutinized each of the men carefully, looking to make sure that none of them was just a cleverly disguised Regan. She was not going to mess up this test for me.
“He gave the signal,” said one of the men, taking off a thick wool coat and throwing it onto a chair. “The time to act is now, while the meeting is still underway.”
“You’re sure?” asked the first man who’d come in. “There is no doubt?”
The man turned to glare at him. “I was there, wasn’t I? I heard him say ‘This meeting can do nothing further to save the country,’ and if there is one man we can trust in all of this, it’s Samuel Adams.”
Then I knew. I was in Boston, Massachusetts, and it was December 16, 1773. The men in front of me had to be part of the secret society called the Sons of Liberty that was formed to protect the rights of the colonists from British taxation. In my time, these men would be some of the most well-respected in history. But tonight, they were nothing more than criminals about to commit a crime so extreme that it would change history forever. All the information about the event was as fresh in my mind as though I’d just read about it in one of my textbooks.
More men were coming into the room and quickly stripping off their own jackets and shirts. The chair near the door now had a stack of discarded clothing wobbling precariously as the men talked in the hushed voices of conspirators. The first man I’d seen had grabbed a large bucket of ash from inside the blacksmith’s forge, and the men were picking up the soot in handfuls and rubbing it over their faces, arms, and torsos. Another man had appeared with what looked like roughly woven blankets, while yet another produced a box of hatchets. Seeing my opportunity, I stripped off my own shirt, grabbed a handful of ash, and scrubbed at my face and arms, turning myself the same dingy color as the men in front of me.
Satisfied with my coverage, I waited until the room was so full that I wouldn’t be noticed before slipping out and grabbing a blanket that I knew was supposed to represent the Mohawk Indians. The disguise was a lame one and not even culturally accurate, my fact-driven brain was quick to point out. Besides being offensive, the blanket itched as I pulled it over my head. But, I reminded myself, the Sons of Liberty hadn’t chosen this disguise to be accurate, or even to be political; they’d chosen this disguise to identify themselves as being American—not British. Knowing how the rest of history would play out, I found this sadly ironic as I grabbed a hatchet from the basket. That done, I made sure to slip to the edges of the group and back into the shadows. As I stood there waiting for the men to finish donning their ragtag disguises, I said a silent thank-you to whatever committee member had conveniently given me a test simulation where disguises made it easy for me to blend in, despite the fact that my skin was a few shades darker than the men surrounding me. I knew that a few black men had participated in the Boston Tea Party, but even so, the last thing I needed right now was to stand out. Although, I frowned as I followed the Sons of Liberty out into the cold December night, the only participants in the Boston Tea Party were men. So how in the world was Regan going to pull this off? I brushed away all thoughts of Regan as I slipped through the dark streets toward the harbor. It was time to commit treason.
Chapter Ten
Regan
For a half second after I opened my eyes, I thought I’d landed back in Ford’s Theatre and this was another Abraham Lincoln assassination simulation. The building I was in had the same old ornate feel, with its tall ceiling and arched windows and rows of hard wooden seats. But this was no theater, and surrounding me was not the well-groomed and washed crowd that had attended that infamous production of Our American Cousin. No, this was something else entirely.
The room was crowded, bodies pressed in on me from all sides, and the air had an angry hum that reminded me of a beehive I’d accidentally hit with my baseball when I was nine. The smell washed over me a moment later, and I had to swallow hard to get my gag reflex in check. Man, I hated time traveling to years before regular bathing was a thing.
A quick glance down at myself showed that I wasn’t in an ornate and cumbersome dress like I usually was when I did a simulation this far back in the past; instead I was dressed
like one of the many men surrounding me. My brown fitted pants were heavily patched and the shirt I was wearing probably hadn’t been washed, well, ever if the dark yellow stains covering it were any indication. I lifted my hand to my head and discovered a wool hat that was barely containing my hair inside it. I was disguised as a boy. Lovely.
But where was I? This was obviously pre–Civil War, and I stank at pre–Civil War simulations as a general rule. I scowled, which wasn’t a big deal since everyone in the room was wearing a similar disgruntled expression, although I was pretty sure it wasn’t because their simulation test hijack wasn’t going as they’d planned.
Someone was calling the meeting, or whatever this was, to order, and I turned my attention to the front of the room, where a familiar-looking man stood. He wasn’t particularly tall or impressive, but there was something about the way he held himself that made it clear that he was in charge. Or maybe it was the way the crowd immediately quieted and turned their eyes on him that did that. Either way, I knew that I should know him.
I squinted at him, trying to remember all of America’s Founding Fathers. Was that Ben Franklin? I wondered. He wasn’t wearing glasses, though, and I was almost positive that Benjamin Franklin wore those. Maybe George Washington? The man smiled grimly at the crowd, and I threw that idea out too. George Washington had lost almost all his teeth by the time he was in his forties, and this guy had a full set. They weren’t particularly good-looking teeth, but that was par for the course during this time period. I racked my brain as I stared at the man. Why did so many of them have to look the same? Same no-nonsense faces, same vests, same stupid-looking shirts.
The man started talking about the British East India Company and the taxation problems the colonies had been having, and I finally knew where I was in history. Maybe. For a half second I actually considered turning to the guy next to me and asking if we were in Boston. But, of course, I didn’t. I could just imagine the lecture I’d get for that one.
The first rule in a simulation was not to talk to anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. We were to tiptoe through history like soldiers walking through a land-mine-riddled field where one misstep could cost you life and limb. Time was that tricky. If I stopped someone to ask them a question, and that thirty-second delay caused them to accidentally get taken out by a runaway horse or something, I could completely alter history. Or it would be fine. The thirty seconds wouldn’t change anything, no one would get run down by a horse, or miss a ride, or not meet someone they were supposed to meet, and time would march on as though a trespasser hadn’t snuck in the back door.
The past was this gigantic domino game, with a billion moments all stacked end to end, and if you took just one domino out, or moved it an inch to the right or left, the whole thing came crashing down. It all made my brain throb, so I pushed the thought away. What mattered now was finding the Butterfly in the middle of what I was pretty sure was Boston. I turned back to stare hard at the man speaking. Gosh, he was familiar. Maybe John Hancock? Or Paul Revere? I made a mental note to study more.
“This meeting can do nothing further to save the country,” the man in front said, his voice heavy and sad. The reaction of the crowd was immediate. As though it was choreographed, cries of outrage rang out, and I wished I’d paid more attention to what the guy was saying. Like the mob it was turning into, the people around me all started moving angrily toward the too-small exit. I was forced along with the tide, squished and squeezed as someone in the front of the room begged for everyone to come back, informing them again and again that this meeting wasn’t over. I hated to break it to him, but this meeting was most definitely over.
After what felt like an eternity of pushing and shoving and enough up-close-and-personal encounters with body odor to last a lifetime, I was finally outside in the mercifully fresh air. Well, fresh-ish air, I conceded. The heavy smell of wood smoke and cooking food was almost as overpowering as the smells had been inside the meetinghouse, but under it all I could smell a saltiness I was pretty certain was the ocean. An icy wind whipped past me, almost taking my hat before I could smash it more securely onto my head.
As the crowd dispersed into the streets of what I was almost positive now was Boston, Massachusetts, in seventeen hundred and something or other, they grew quieter. Some of them grouped together, talking in low voices before disappearing into the doorway of a house or down a side street. Meanwhile, I just stood there in front of the meetinghouse like a goober as the crowd thinned out around me. I was lost. I didn’t know who I should follow, or even which way the harbor was, and weren’t there a lot of harbors in Boston? Which one had been the one that had the tea party? All of my bravado from hijacking Elliot’s simulation test was draining away, and I was left with a familiar feeling of uncertainty. Only this time, that uncertainty was lined with panic. Because if I didn’t beat Elliot in this, he would go on to the next level of the Academy, and I’d be left behind, waiting for whatever awful future the letter forecasted to come true.
Squaring my shoulders, I caught sight of one of the last groups of colonists moments before they turned down a side street, and I broke into a jog to follow them. I might not know where the harbor was that held the infamous ships of the British East India Company, but they sure did. It was time to hunt down that Butterfly.
Chapter Eleven
Elliot
As I wove my way through the sleepy streets toward what would soon be the infamous Griffin’s Wharf, I started my search for the Butterfly in earnest. Considering the time period, the odds were that the Butterfly would be a white male, probably in his twenties so that he would easily blend in with the event. When people first started trespassing into history, they weren’t careful about that kind of thing. They floundered about in the wrong clothes with the incorrect haircut and speech patterns like the proverbial bull in a china shop. Or, to steal the words of one of my favorite professors, like a whale in a bathtub. They stuck out. As time went on, though, and the Academy started sending Glitchers in to capture them, the Butterflies got smarter and a lot sneakier. Especially the Butterflies that joined up with Mayhem.
The first step was to figure out what about this event could be easily derailed. How could someone forever alter the future? Usually that question was clear, but tonight it wasn’t. The event was too large; too many people were involved and spread across too wide of an area. Even an incredibly skilled Butterfly wouldn’t be able to completely stop this event. So where was I supposed to look?
Before I could figure it out, we were at the harbor, and I was following the stream of men on board the closest of the three boats. There were only a few sailors guarding the cargo, and they quickly decided that tangoing with a pack of angry colonists with hatchets was a bad idea and got out of the way. The Boston Tea Party began. Barrels of tea were dragged across the deck of the ship, laid on their sides and hacked at with the crude hatchets until they cracked open like eggs, revealing the rich dark tea inside. Some of it spilled out onto the deck, filling the air with the pungent odor of distant lands, before the barrels were hurled overboard into the water.
Not wanting to gain any unwanted attention, I got to work and was just levering my first barrel across the deck when I caught sight of the other British East India ship under attack, the Beaver. Glancing in the other direction, I could just make out the third ship, the Dartmouth, as it was converged on by more angry Sons of Liberty. I must be on the Eleanor, then, I thought, and even as I felt the familiar smugness of knowing the details of this historical event inside and out, I felt a tug of fear. What if the Butterfly was on one of those other ships? How would I ever know? And that’s when I saw Regan Fitz board the boat.
I almost didn’t recognize her without her signature tumble of blond hair, but there was something about the way she held herself, a lofty arrogance even in her dingy men’s clothing and frumpy hat, that set her apart. My distraction made me lose focus and my next hatchet hack hit the metal ring that held the barrel together and glanc
ed off. A moment later I felt a searing pain in my right leg and looked down to see a bloom of blood already darkening the calf of my brown trousers.
The hatchet fell from my suddenly numb hands as I bent instinctively to grasp my bleeding calf muscle. Pain momentarily fogged my brain, and I sat down hard on the wooden deck of the boat.
This isn’t real, I told myself as I gritted my teeth against the all too real pain. My leg was perfectly intact back in the simulation room. But while my brain might have believed that, my body wasn’t buying it. My head felt light and disconnected from my body as I attempted to stop the stream of blood that was running over my hand and onto the deck. I was going to lose major points for this screwup.
“That was really stupid,” said a voice in my ear, and I looked up into Regan’s annoyed blue eyes.
“What are you doing?” I said through gritted teeth as I blinked at the tears I hadn’t even noticed until now.
“Saving your neck,” she said. “What does it look like?”
“My neck doesn’t need saving,” I said.
“Your neck may be fine, but you really jacked up your leg,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. Why was she doing this? Did she think she was going to get extra points for helping me? I didn’t think it worked that way. One of the main rules of this competition was that you weren’t to interfere with another Glitcher under any circumstances. It was every man for himself, just like it would be in a real simulation someday.
