His head was clouded, and he felt uncomfortable with everyone staring at him. He took Zoë’s hand and led her out of the room, then closed the door.
“Did I ruin your visit?” he asked.
“No, of course not. I mean, I got to talk to Damien, and I’m just happy you’re all right.” She paused. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m just … tired, maybe. Stressed out.”
Zoë searched him with her eyes, then nodded. “All right, then. I’ll go let them know.” She slipped back into the room, and he heard her speaking to the police.
He turned and saw Lt. Kira Watson standing on the other side of the hall, talking with another officer. But before he could go and speak to her, Zoë walked back into the hallway.
“Well,” she said. “That’s settled. Want to get some lunch before we meet with the attorney? We can stop by the ship later, too.”
“Uh, sure. But—you didn’t see anyone else come in, did you? When you were talking to Damien?”
“No, why?”
“I’m just wondering.”
She stared at him. “Maybe we should stop by the hospital, just in case.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Honestly. I was just a bit stressed out.” And I’m being stalked by a time traveler, he thought, but decided not to say.
4.
The lawyer’s office was on a corner on 14th Street, behind a huge sign that read JONES, DELANEY, & ASSOCIATES.
“What did your dad need lawyers for?” Thomas asked.
“Oh, you know. He was a diplomat.”
Thomas didn’t know, but he sighed and didn’t press the matter. Financial issues, probably; when Zoë was only a baby, her parents had gone through a messy divorce.
Zoë greeted the receptionist warmly, and they walked through a set of double doors to a long hallway. The lawyer’s office was behind an oak door with a frosted glass window. The brass nameplate read Milton Apollo, Attorney at Law. Before she could knock, the door opened.
“Miss Martínez!” The lawyer stood in the door frame, looking jubilant. He was short, probably in his fifties, and wore a gray suit and black tie. A pair of tiny half-moon glasses were perched on his nose; he looked more like a professor than a lawyer. “Come in, come in!”
He escorted them inside, and Zoë and Thomas sat down.
“You’re early,” he said. He sat down on a leather chair behind his desk. “And … who’s this?” The man riveted his eyes on Thomas.
“This is my fiancé, Thomas Huxley,” said Zoë.
Apollo whistled, then smiled. “You poor girl.”
The journalist swiveled in his chair, puzzled. Maybe it was his suit? Bright cerulean, of a tight cut, with a white tie—maybe it was a bit too British for the lawyer? Maybe the lawyer just didn’t like his news show? Or what?
“Out,” said the lawyer.
“Milton, Thomas can hear what you have to—”
“Out.”
Thomas reluctantly jumped up. “I’m gone,” he said, and closed the door behind him.
The lawyer turned to his client (or, perhaps more accurately: his client’s sister) and raised an eyebrow.
“What?” she asked.
He sighed. “Zo, my dear, you have a lot to learn.”
She smiled, not really surprised. “You don’t like him?”
“Love him,” said the lawyer, letting his hand hang limply.
Zoë rolled her eyes. “I’m not paying you four hundred credits an hour to call my future husband gay.”
“Then I’ll subtract fifteen minutes from the bill. Or, better yet, not charge you at all. I can’t take this case.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t do murder cases anymore. Haven’t done those in years.”
“But my father always trusted you. This is my brother we’re talking about.”
“Yes, I was your father’s attorney. But this isn’t a case of—”
“Just hear me out,” said Zoë. “They intimidated Damien, forced him to confess. It’s obvious. Can’t you convince a judge of that?”
“I suppose.”
“But?”
He leaned back in his chair. “They’ve already demonized Damien in the media. This is the king’s murder we’re talking about. If I take this case, my career is over.”
She blinked. “You’re a lawyer, and you’re worried about your reputation?”
“Zoë—” He sighed, then shook it off. He looked at her, beaming. “I didn’t know you were getting married.”
She smiled faintly. “We haven’t sent out the invitations yet.”
“You’ve really grown up, you know.”
“Have I?” She grinned.
There was a reason Zoë grew up to be a responsible, well-functioning adult after her mother’s death: someone stepped in to help her out. Apollo was in and out of her father’s house during her teen years. He drove her to school when her father forgot, he checked up on her and Damien when her father was out late; he made sure she did her homework and that she ate salads instead of hamburgers.
And, looking at her, the lawyer knew he couldn’t forsake his former client’s son.
“Milton—” she said.
“Please, call me Apollo. I like Apollo better.”
“Fine. Apollo. Will you argue for him?”
“My dear,” he said, sighing, “to be honest? I was expecting you to call.”
She smiled, then stood.
“I’ll go by and talk to Damien this afternoon, then talk to the prosecution tonight. No promises, but … I’ll let you know how things go.”
“Thanks.” Zoë grabbed her jacket, then turned to leave.
“Oh, and Zoë?” He winked. “Cute boyfriend. I’m jealous.”
She only shook her head, still smiling, and opened the door. She heard a shuffling of footsteps as she stepped into hallway and closed the door. When her eyes adjusted, she saw Thomas standing on the other side of the hallway, leaning against the wall.
“Were you listening?” she asked, surprised.
“No. Maybe.” He paused. “Four hundred credits an hour? That’s what I used to make in a week.”
“He’s one of the best.”
Thomas glanced at the door, thinking of the rock band. “In Greek mythology, isn’t Apollo the god of music?”
“I think so. Huh, that’s neat.”
He looked at her. “Do you believe him that I’m …?”
“Are you?”
He stepped forward, then kissed her. “What do you think?”
With her eyes closed, she smiled. “Nope.”
Chapter Five
Thomas and Zoë reached the takeoff fields an hour later. Zoë’s magnificent fighter ship, the Halcyon, gleamed in the sunlight. Primed and ready for a voyage, it was nearly a hundred feet long, and its armor held the luster and appearance of pure gold. Thomas circled around it, dazzled and feeling tiny by comparison.
“It’s incredible,” he said.
“My dad piloted it in the last war. Armor’s strong enough to withstand most missile attacks. You could sit inside and watch the world crumble around you.” Zoë walked over and pressed a button on the side of the ship, and a hatch folded down. She bounded up the steps, but Thomas hesitated, walking in with more caution.
“And you fly this?” he asked, peering into the ship.
“With a little help.”
A robot rolled into place beside Zoë. It was fashioned mostly of tin, with wiry arms and oversized red eyes.
Thomas stepped back, alarmed.
“Thomas, this is Jack. He’s a Proteus-5000 model.”
“It is a pleasure to serve you, Mr. Huxley,” the ’bot chirped. “I serve as co-pilot to Miss Martínez, perform maintenance, and make any necessary repairs. Miss Martínez, the communications system is now functional.”
“Thank you,” said Zoë.
The robot’s eyes lit up when it spoke, and their shape and color reminded Thomas of a photo he had one seen of bicycle
reflectors. The voice seemed human enough, if a bit choppy, but it lacked something Thomas couldn’t quite identify, something that made it almost physically painful for him to hear.
“Come on.” Zoë took Thomas’s hand and pulled him inside the main hallway. “Right here is a storage closet for equipment. To your left is a small kitchen, and if you keep walking, you’ll find four bedrooms. Here’s the lounge.”
He peeked inside and saw a red sofa (nailed to the floor, of course) and a paper-thin TV screen on the opposite wall. “Nice. A bit old-fashioned, but nice. But I thought this was a military ship?”
“It’s been refitted for civilian voyages. Aha. Here we go.” Zoë slipped into the pilot’s cabin. It contained rows of dials and levers, all under three wide screens, which showed a glimpse of the outside world: the sunny sky of mid-day. She pressed a button, and a hologram popped up. “Let’s see. Communication system fixed and operational. Takeoff controls, shields, missiles—”
“Missiles?”
She only grinned and sat down. “Kidding. We can fly it back to London later this week, but I need to stay here as long as possible. Are you sure you don’t need to go back to work right away?”
“Positive,” he said. “I’ve taken the whole week off.”
She sat back in the chair, thinking. “The ship’s got everything we need. Tonight we can move our stuff in here.”
The idea came when they left the hotel earlier that afternoon and a group of reporters and photographers swarmed them, bombarding Zoë with questions about her brother. But Thomas still had concerns. “Uh, I’m not sure I’m comfortable sleeping in a place that could move.”
“Don’t go to California,” she said dryly.
He walked out to explore the kitchen. It was tiny: two counters and a table. His kitchenette in his London flat had more square feet. But the cabinets unlatched easily, and the fridge had hooks to secure food in place. He pulled out a bottled Strawberry Jolama Heartache and went into the lounge to watch the news.
“The Council has appointed Commander Edward Delacroix as temporary leader of the Celestial Federation, as Princess Emily is two years too young to be crowned. They have scheduled an emergency trial for accused assassin Damien Martinez.
“Also, London reporter Thomas Huxley—”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“—is maintaining the innocence of his fiancée’s brother.”
They played a clip of him from that morning. As he watched, Thomas put a hand to his mouth, thinking of his words, expressions, movements. “Wow, you’re right. I am slipping into my American accent.”
“When did you do that interview?” Zoë asked, sitting down.
“This morning, when I was walking back to the hotel. They kind of cornered me.” When he glanced back at the screen, the anchor was speaking again.
“Do you really think he’s innocent?” Zoë asked.
“No. But they haven’t convinced me he’s guilty.”
Zoë crossed her arms. “A man who has never shown any hint of disliking the king suddenly attacks him? They don’t think that’s suspicious?”
Thomas looked away. “What did you say about that album? Censored … for anti-government messages?”
Zoë stood up and grabbed her jacket.
“Wait, where are you going?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “To see Jamie.”
2.
The singer sat in his lush, winding garden, strumming an electric guitar that wasn’t plugged into an amp. Zoë followed sound of the tinny notes to the center of the yard, pushed past a sunflower and sat down on a bench across from him.
Jamie looked up at her, his silver sunglasses catching the light, then glanced down to focus on the solo.
“You didn’t answer my calls,” said Zoë.
Still strumming, he said, “I’ve been in police custody all night. They had lots of questions.”
“Everyone does.”
He slipped off the strap and put his guitar down. “We were mad about the album, Zo, but not mad enough to kill anyone.”
“So you don’t think he did it?”
“I honestly don’t know. They’re going to make an example of him, though. Death penalty ... that’s a given.”
She leaned back. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Sure. Perfectly. All my friends are dying around me. Peachy-keen, Zo.”
“I mean,” she said, “I don’t want to lose you too.”
Jamie grabbed the guitar and started playing again. She recognized the opening chords from “Dame de la Pluie,” the band’s first hit. The steady plunk of the tune echoed in her mind, and she felt perturbed. He had composed that song shortly before his first suicide attempt, at the age of nineteen.
“Jamie.”
He looked up. “Yes?”
“Promise me you won’t try anything. That you’ll call me if anything happens.”
“I promise.”
“I can’t lose you. Tell me you’ll go stay with someone. Your parents, maybe. Or come with me and Thomas. We’re staying in the city until things get straightened out.”
“Can’t, love,” he said. “I’m a solitary creature.”
She looked out at the garden: a tessellated patio of stones, then a jungle of sunflowers.
“Please.”
“Don’t worry about me. I have plans. I still have a visitor coming. Don’t know when she’ll be around, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Long story. But I’m working on a new album.” He finished the last chord of the intro, and let it ring out. “You and I will get through this together.”
Zoë sighed and nodded. She wasn’t entirely reassured, but from Jamie, this was the best she would ever get.
3.
Thomas unpacked his clothes in Zoë’s bedroom on the ship. When he turned to hook a jacket on the back of the door, he saw Ariel standing in front of it.
“Whoa!” he said, stepping back. “Don’t scare me like that.”
“I need to talk.”
“Yes, let’s. What were you doing at the prison?”
“Standard temporal time-slowing. It’s an easy way to appear to freeze time—”
“No, with Damien! You could’ve scared him to death.”
“Would’ve saved him a lot of trouble. But I think he’s innocent.”
“Right. But he told you, with no ambiguity, that he did it. He told the police that he did it, too.”
“When he was arrested, he fought and at first claimed he didn’t have anything to do with it. My guess is he changed his story when he knew the facts were against him. It’s possible he’d be tortured if he didn’t confess, and he would definitely be told as much.”
“Uh-huh. Your temporal shift or whatever was messing with my head again, kiddo. I passed out after you left.”
Ariel opened her copper watch. “You were fine this morning. The device shouldn’t be causing any more problems, beyond momentary vertigo.”
“Well, it did.”
She closed the cover. “Then I’ll go easy from now on. Anyway, I’m really interested in Damien’s case now. Doesn’t sound like he killed the king at all.”
“So break him out, then. You’ve got that pocket watch.”
“Hm. I could, but the world’s seen his face. They’ve been running 24/7 coverage on him in every Federation-run country, and I’m sure they’ve declared it news in countries that are not. He could never go back to a normal life. You’ve been on TV a little bit, and you’ve seen how much people recognize you.”
“So take him to another time.”
“Maybe. But it’s incredibly hard to integrate fully. He couldn’t accept that. The only way is to clear his name. If his name deserves clearing.” Ariel sat down on the bed.
“Kiddo, this really isn’t the time for me to be thinking about this.”
“Right! You seem like a morning person. How’s tomorrow, then?”
Before he could answer, Zoë’s voice soun
ded from the hall: “Thomas, is that you?”
He turned, and Ariel was gone. He blinked. “Uh ... yeah. I’m just unpacking my things,” he called.
Zoë walked into the room a moment later. “Hm. That’s weird. I thought I heard someone’s voice.”
“Nope. Just me.”
“Oh. So, we’re having dinner with your parents at seven? I’d better get ready.”
“But it’s only four o’clock,” he said, confused.
She smiled and walked back into the hallway.
Two hours later, Thomas paced in front of the bathroom door.
“Zo, are you ready yet? We need to leave soon.”
The door opened, and Zoë stepped out, looking radiant. Her naturally wavy hair was straightened and pinned up. She wore a yellow sundress and high heels, and clutched a matching handbag. Her blue eyes shone behind eyeliner and mascara.
“You look beautiful,” he said, amazed.
She smiled. “Shall we go, then?”
“Right. I know the way.”
They walked out through the takeoff fields, into the south of the city. Zoë flagged down a flying taxi, and it stopped, opening one of its eagle-wing doors. She slipped inside.
Thomas stared at the car, frozen in place.
“What’s wrong?” she said, leaning out of the car.
“I … don’t do flying cars.”
“It’s the fastest way to get to your house.”
How had he dated her for a year without ever telling her he didn’t ride in flying cars? But he’d asked her to come, and he couldn’t expect her to walk the whole way in heels. He slipped inside and closed his door.
Zoë gave the address to the driver, and the car took off before Thomas could get his seat belt on. The force slammed him back in his seat, and then into the window as the car took a sharp turn. He clicked the belt on and took a breath, trying not to look as the car blasted above the streets and soared into the sky.
“This really is a beautiful city,” said Zoë, glancing down through her window. “Especially from here.”
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