Flyday

by Laura E. Bradford

  “I tried. She wasn’t in her office.”

  “You’re a time traveler! You can go to any place, any time! What’s stopping you?”

  “I ruined my element of surprise. They know I’m coming. They’ll have armed guards, traps, everything.”

  “So I’ll go with you.”

  “What will that do?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “I was just thinking about Damien,” she said. “When I asked him if he shot the king, he said yes. But in my head, I heard no. What does that mean?”

  “It means you have an overactive imagination.”

  “Possibly, but I’m going to stop by the police’s forensic science labs today. I want to see the evidence against him.”

  “You took me out of the twenty-sixth century and put me in your car just to talk about Damien?”

  “If you haven’t noticed, there aren’t any police officers with blue helmets and riot gear here. And I think better when I’m driving. Just listen for a moment. Listen. King Richard Montag died. Who gains from that situation?”

  “Well … they said Damien was angry over the album. Jamie wouldn’t re-record it to get around censorship laws, since he’d have to re-do some of Kyle’s parts. Delacroix might release it now.”

  “Who?”

  “Delacroix.” He pronounced it del-a-crah.

  “Who?” Her tone was patient. She knew who the Commander was.

  He rolled his eyes. “All right, Commander Edward Delacroix is taking on the king’s duties. But he can only rule for two years.”

  “Unless something happens to Emily.”

  “You’re saying that this is an inside job? That he’s responsible?”

  She stared ahead. “I don’t think Damien killed the king. I think he was framed.”

  “You don’t have any proof. And why do you even care? I thought you time travelers tried not to meddle with history.”

  “There’s something I’m missing,” she said. “Something I don’t know.”

  “Well, you know the future, don’t you? Does Damien live, or does he die?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Kiddo, I have to get back to Zoë, and we need to get through this together. Then I’m going back to London, because I’m already behind on my work. I have enough problems as it is.”

  Ariel looked at him. “When’s the Flyday?”

  “What?”

  “The date Damien’s going to be killed. When is it?”

  “June twenty-first,” he said. “It’s usually the summer solstice, but we just celebrate it on its own now. It’s a holiday.”

  “Well, I’ll work with you until then, and you can make your choice. If you want to come with me and travel, you can. If not, then by all means stay. But I’m telling you right now, you’ll want to come with me.”

  “And why is that?”

  She changed the subject. “You said I looked familiar, so I have a question for you. Have you actually met me, or have you just heard of me?”

  “Why would I have heard of you?”

  Ariel stared straight ahead. “Just tell me what you think. You have more memories than you know; you’ve just blocked it all out of your mind.”

  He stared at her. “I don’t know. I think I met you.”

  “Hm.”

  “But if you know everything, what happened the day I was shot? Can’t we find out?”

  “Thomas ... a sprained wrist, a broken leg, a bullet through the head? You were a member of the secret police. What do you think happened?”

  He noticed they’d left the highway. He closed his eyes, thinking.

  “My partner’s name was Madison,” he said suddenly. “She had a young son, only a baby … but after I recovered, I looked for them everywhere, and couldn’t find them.”

  Ariel stared ahead. “That does sound strange.”

  “So it’s true? I was in the secret police? Who is she? Is she safe?”

  “I don’t know.” She glanced over to Thomas. “Just consider being my partner. We’ll work out the rest.”

  2.

  June 17, 2507

  Milton Apollo strode into the police’s questioning room. It was wide and bright, with a long table in the center. Sitting in the center, his hands cuffed behind his back, was the prisoner.

  “Damien, Damien, Damien.” The lawyer tapped his fingers on the table as he walked. “Last time I saw you, you were on a stage.”

  “Weird, huh?”

  Apollo pulled out a chair and sat down, staring at the prisoner. “You confessed? How? Why?”

  Damien cracked a faint smile. “I asked a question, and they took it as a confession.”

  “Huh.” The lawyer sat back. “Where would you even get the gun? Or the training to properly fire it? It’s a military weapon. An ancient military weapon. You’d need to be in the military decades ago to receive the training for it.”

  “Or know someone who was in the military decades ago.”

  “Please, your father was a lousy shot. And what’d they say the motive was …? Anger because some songs couldn’t come out? Sounds pretty shaky.”

  “They were written by my friend. He’s dead now. Kind of an insult to his memory. Apollo, I know my sister asked you to help me, but I don’t really need anything.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve argued people out of far, far, worse. Why, back in ’99, the Jolama Beverage Corp was about to file for bankruptcy…”

  “Apollo—”

  “And back in ’86, there was that—”

  “Apollo,” he said, clearly, “I don’t want a trial.”

  A few seconds passed before the words sank in; the lawyer turned, surprised. “No trial?”

  “Nope. Nothing. They want to kill me? Good. I don’t want any public spectacle. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in some secret prison. I killed him. End of story.”

  The attorney wasn’t entirely prepared for this. “I can get your name cleared,” he insisted. “They’re not going to give me any time, I get that, and they probably think they’ve already made up their minds, but they haven’t.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Apollo headed for the door. “But if I can’t get the confession thrown out, ask for a life sentence. Better than finding your neck in a noose. Life sentences can be overturned.”

  3.

  Ariel stopped at a restaurant just off the highway. While they waited for a server, she tried to explain a few concepts of her time: the Internet, the simplicity of which astounded Thomas; transportation; money. The journalist’s eyes lit up when Ariel reached into her pocket and pulled out a few round pieces of metal and crumpled rectangles of green paper, so she let him examine the different types.

  “What are these called?” he asked, holding up the largest silver coin.

  “Quarters,” she replied.

  He looked at the engraving, but found he couldn’t make it out. He put it down.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Ariel picked up the coin, then moved her eyes to him.

  “I’m farsighted, okay? I take my contact lenses out to sleep. Only thing is, I woke up in the wrong century this morning, and never got a chance to put them back in.”

  She sat back, astonished. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I thought by the twenty-sixth century, they’d—well, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Genetic engineering! People who don’t need glasses, people who are smarter, faster. We had movies about it. Did it ever happen?”

  “Yep. Well, sort of. Most children have modified DNA. Zoë does.”

  “Not you?”

  “There are ... accidental conceptions.”

  She sat back, her eyes widening. “The movies predicted this too! So does anyone know? Is it a big deal?”

  “Not really. Most people are descended from a ‘preferred’ individual—that’s what they call them when their genes are modified. So it doesn’t matter.” He looked around. The diner was mostly empty, but
a few people sat at another table, chatting and wearing clothes of a style not too dissimilar to that of his own time. He saw the day’s specials written in colorful chalk on boards above the—

  “What is that?” he asked, pointing.

  Ariel looked. “Cash register.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “It holds money.”

  He considered. There was no slot on the table to swipe his ID card and pay for the meal, but of course: Ariel would exchange those coins and papers as payment.

  A waitress approached and asked for their orders.

  “I’ll have pancakes, and a Strawberry Jolama Heartache,” said Thomas.

  “A what?”

  The time traveler smiled. “He means a Pepsi. And I’ll just have a glass of water.” The waitress was still a bit puzzled, but wrote it down and left.

  “What did you order?” Ariel asked Thomas.

  Thomas realized his anachronism. A Jolama, he explained, was basically a flavored soda. It had been named after its creator, Henry Jolama, a famed beverage-maker of the twenty-third century. Alcohol could be mixed with it, making a “Jolama soda on the ice.” (“With ice” meant that frozen cubes of water had been added.)

  Strawberry flavor would make a creamy pink “Strawberry Jolama Heartache”; chocolate, a “Chocolate Jolama Dream.” (“Names,” Henry Jolama once remarked, “are two-thirds of marketing.”) Vanilla, cherry, and lime were also available, as well as a “plain Jolama,” which Ariel knew as regular soda.

  She was glad that the music drowned out their conversation.

  “I’m still trying to wrap my mind around this time-travel thing,” Thomas admitted. “Travel over distance is one thing, but time…”

  “Well, you’re better than I was. The first time I found out about time travel, I was floored. Just absolutely in disbelief. You seem to be taking it well.”

  “After what’s happened to me, I’ll believe anything.”

  Ariel lined up the salt and pepper shakers. “Hm. This is the last place I went with Jamie. For him that was years ago. For me, just a handful of days.” She looked out the window.

  “Jamie…”

  “Parsons,” she said. “He’s a singer.”

  Thomas sat back, stunned. “Your last partner was Jamie Parsons? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think it mattered. He was about nineteen.”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “It’s complicated. You must know—every explanation for what he does is complicated.”

  That was true. Thomas tapped the table absentmindedly. In his interviews, he often pressed people for answers, but some only divulged information bit by bit. “So one day someone just approached you, asked you to be a time traveler, and you said yes?”

  She smiled. “I was always dreaming about somewhere else I could go. Didn’t you ever do that?”

  He did: one of his dreams had been to be a reporter in London. Then he fell in love with a girl who didn’t like big cities.

  “Sort of,” he said. “I did always think the idea of time travel was neat. If I were late for work, I could zap back and be on time.”

  “Mm. That type of travel gets confusing after awhile, though. Being in two places at once…”

  The server returned with their drinks and Thomas’s plate. He took the knife and fork, holding them in a way Ariel had never seen, and started to cut the pancakes.

  “Syrup?” said Ariel.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, don’t you use syrup in your time?”

  “No.” He put a piece in his mouth.

  She sighed.

  Thomas looked at the glass of Pepsi, hesitant to try it. “When we go back to my time, you’ll have to try the sodas there,” he said. “How do you keep track of language, by the way? English has changed a lot in the past five centuries.”

  “I’m pretty adept at learning accents, and Jamie helped me with your time’s lingo. Entire languages are a bit trickier, but I get along. I spoke French and a little Spanish before I left, so that helped.”

  “Je suis impressionné,” said Thomas: I’m impressed.

  “Oui. That’s right; you know French, don’t you? You spent a semester in Montréal.”

  He thought about that for a moment, and realized he had. Wide streets, signs in another language ... it all seemed murky in his mind, like flashes of films he’d seen as a child, but it was there.

  “You can go anywhere, in any time, can’t you?” Thomas asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Could we go back in time and see dinosaurs?”

  “Ahh! Can you imagine me getting chomped on by a T. rex? No. No way.”

  “Aw, you’ve never gone that far?”

  “Thomas, five hundred years, or even a few thousand, is nothing. But 70, or even 100 million years? This thing might short-circuit.” She looked at her pocket watch, now ticking away the seconds on a sunny day in 2007.

  “Come on, we could try it.”

  She pocketed the device. “Fine. For you, dinosaurs. But if it goes Jurassic Park, I’m outta there.”

  “Jurassic Park?”

  “Never mind,” said Ariel. “But what if we accidentally kill an insect or something and totally destroy the evolutionary tree?”

  The waitress returned with their check, gave them an odd look, then walked away.

  “I thought we couldn’t change anything. Can we change anything?”

  “I’m just postulating.”

  “Oh, what am I thinking? I can’t do this. I mean, leave Zoë, travel?”

  “She leaves you all the time to fly around the world.”

  “But that’s her job. And she lets me know. And she doesn’t encounter dinosaurs.”

  She watched him for a moment, then glanced out the window. “You don’t have to do this. But if you do … I think there’s something you should know.”

  Thomas was struggling with the wrapper on his straw, and finally he tore it open. He plopped the straw in his drink, feeling victorious. “Oh?”

  “My full name isn’t Ariel Midori. It’s Ariel Midori Reynolds. Dimitri … is my brother.”

  Thomas followed her eyes out the window as he took a sip of the soft drink. When he saw the license plate, he spat the liquid all over the table.

  Ariel stood in the parking lot with her hands in her pockets. Her ’76 Camaro had black racing stripes and a fresh coat of yellow paint. When Thomas squinted, the license plate came into focus: TNOKTE.

  “This plate is in a museum,” he said.

  “Really? Why?”

  He tried to explain one legend of how the city was named: that Dimitri had heard the word in his youth and loved it, had emblazoned it on his vehicle, and eventually used it to title the city he built.

  “It’s meaningless,” she said. “The person who sold the car to my mom chose it. It was the three states the guy lived in, I think: Tennessee, Oklahoma, Texas. Except TNOKTX was taken, so he put an E at the end.”

  “Ohh,” he said, as if he were in pain. He stared, wide-eyed, at the automobile. “Why didn’t I see it? Of course you looked familiar! Ariel Reynolds, red hair, born in 1989. Dimitri’s deployed overseas, so you drive his car!” He paused. “You’re related to the most famous man in history, you know.”

  “Come on. Is he more famous than George Washington? Alexander the Great?”

  “Who?”

  Ariel put a hand to her forehead, as Thomas circled around the car, smiling. “No wonder you care about the king! He’s your nephew.”

  “Uh, my nephew, five centuries removed.”

  “Your nephew in spirit. Your brother goes on to become famous, and you …” He brightened. “Your father was a famous epidemiologist, then. Studied diseases, patterns of death. That sounds a lot like you.”

  “There,” she said, sharply. “You know more about him than I do.” She slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.

  Thomas walked over and leaned in the driver’s side wi
ndow. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  She didn’t reply. If she was Ariel Reynolds, then her father would have died when she was four years old.

  “It’s just … I was named for him. Dr. Thomas James Reynolds … Thomas James Huxley.”

  “That’s nice.”

  He slid into the driver’s seat, then closed the door. He wouldn’t see her as clearly, but he wanted to be close to her.

  “We were meant to meet,” he told her.

  “It’s possible.”

  “I studied you in history class,” he added, as if it mattered.

  “Keep it to yourself, then. I don’t want to know when I die.”

  “No one knows. That’s the thing. One day you just … go missing.”

  Ariel stared straight ahead. “Someone knows. Somewhere along the time line, I’ve already died. Isn’t that wonderful to know? Don’t tell me any more. I don’t want to be like Jamie.”

  “Why? What happened to him?”

  “He’s … very famous. You know. In the future, they’ll put up memorials for him—statues and everything. We were walking along one day, and he tripped over one of them. Inscribed on it was his name and the date of his death.”

  A pause. “Was this before or after he attempted suicide?”

  “After, oddly enough. When he found out how successful he’d be, he wanted to go back. He had this theory…” She shook her head. “It was bound to happen, anyway, and I should’ve known not to take someone so well-known. But it’s so much easier to find the famous people, isn’t it?”

  “Hey, wait a minute. I’m not famous?”

  “Who are you again?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Well, is that how they found you?”

  She nodded. “Jude Fawkes is our leader’s partner, but before that, he needed someone from the early twenty-first century. He read somewhere that Dimitri Reynolds’s little sister could pick up languages well, and so he went to me.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He had a fantastic way of explaining time travel, too. Right now, he’s out researching why the Celestials are tracking me. Which is what I should be doing.” She looked at him for a moment, realizing he was in the driver’s seat. “We need to switch places.”