I narrow my eyes. The words on the spine aren’t Gaulish. They’re English.
AN OVERVIEW OF
WORLD HISTORY
Vol. II:
ANNO DOMINI
My skin grows cold as all my blood retreats inward.
Lidia.
This has to be the book from her bag of tricks that she used to pinpoint moments in history to destroy.
Anno Domini must mean the book covers the era from year one to…well, depending on when it was published, the early 1950s from where Lidia would have obtained it.
The change that created Jovan and Dumont’s world occurred when Lidia allowed the Mongols to invade Europe in 1242. So everything in the book prior to that point would be common to not only Iffy’s and my worlds but to this one, too. From 1242 forward, though, the timelines would diverge and the book would tell of a history that never happened here.
Dumont might not be able to read the text yet, but given time, a good linguist will figure it out. Even without the words, the illustrations and photographs and maps would convey a world different from the one she knows.
Oh, my god.
“Tell me about this book,” she says.
My body vibrates with a dread I cannot afford to show. As calmly as possible, I say, “What about it?”
Jovan starts to translate but Dumont cuts him off and says directly to me, “World History, Volume Two, Anno Domini. Samuel Martin. Madison Meyers Publishing. Nineteen forty-nine.”
While her accent is far from perfect, she has spoken in English. She has also recited more information than appears on the spine, information no doubt from the title page inside.
When she parts her lips to speak again, I’m sure she’s going to continue in my language to show I can no longer hide behind the excuse I don’t understand her. But her question is in Gaulish.
Jovan says, “She wants to know where the book comes from.”
Dumont apparently can recite the title in English but doesn’t know enough to ask me a simple question. Just over Jovan’s shoulder, Langer and Madani are eagerly looking at me, and suddenly the pieces slide together in my mind.
Instead of answering Jovan, I say in English to Langer and Madani, “Do you understand me?”
They whisper to each other behind a shield of upright palms. When they finish, Madani nods.
“How much have you translated?” I ask.
After consulting with each other again, the woman says, “Trahns latt-e-did?”
Interesting.
I decide to test her knowledge further. “Translated. In this case, it means the transformation of words and sentence structures from one foreign tongue to another.”
It’s instantly clear she and her companion understand only a few words at best.
I point at the book and say in Latin, “How much can you read?”
Madani answers quickly. “All.”
A lie. If they’ve deciphered a full paragraph, I would be shocked.
There is a short conversation between the linguists and Dumont, at the end of which the professor says via Jovan, “You have not answered my question.”
“I don’t know where it’s from.”
Technically this is true, but I’m sure she isn’t interested in which store Lidia picked it up from.
“Where?” she says, not hiding her annoyance.
“It belonged to my colleague, not me.”
“You are telling me you have not seen this book before?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” Again, not a lie. The only book Lidia showed me that she had with her was a textbook on World War II, an item she left in prewar Berlin, Germany.
“But you can read it,” Dumont says.
My mind is working overtime. When I leave here, not only will I need the chaser, I must have the book, too. It’s Lidia’s roadmap of destruction that will guide me as I unravel her mess.
Until I can actually obtain the items, getting access to the book is a step in the right direction. “I should be able to. But from the words on the side, I can see it is written in a—” I pause. Dialect is not a word I know in any language other than my own, and it takes a bit of creative back and forth before I think Jovan knows what I mean. Once he adds it to what I’ve already said, I continue, “I’m not as familiar with it, so it might take me a little time to figure it out.”
“I think you are not telling us the truth,” Dumont says.
I’m dancing on the edge of a knife, but I can’t stop now. “Why would I do that? You’ve saved my friend and me. I want to help. I just thought you should be aware of that before I do anything so that you’re not disappointed if it takes me longer than you were expecting.”
It feels as if she is staring into my soul. I force myself to believe the words I said. For Iffy’s sake. And for Ellie’s. I’m the only chance they’ve got to live again.
When Dumont finally looks away, I sense maybe I’ve succeeded. The effort, though, has sucked up much of my strength, and if I weren’t already standing against the table, I’d be grabbing it to steady myself.
Any sign of my weakness is masked by a sharp set of words from Shim. I understand he and not but little else.
Though Dumont’s response doesn’t come with the anger from before, there is a stern undercurrent of displeasure.
The tense conversation continues for nearly a minute and concludes with Shim wheeling around and storming out the door. My guess is, I may have been able to satisfy Dumont for now but the same can’t be said for Shim.
After Dumont picks up the book, Langer gathers and folds the cloth while Madani places the container back in the center of the table.
“Your help will be appreciated,” Dumont says, sounding like she means it. Madani puts the book in the box.
I’m not fooled by her show of kindness. She didn’t take me from my cell to be her friend. I’m only here to help her understand the book and the chaser. Once she’s satisfied she’s wrung everything she can out of me, I have a feeling she’ll have me eliminated.
Before it reaches that point, I need to be gone. And I’ll have to take Jovan with me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TOMORROW WILL MARK the start of the sixth week since I was shown Lidia’s book. I’ve spent every day since then working on translating it, from shortly after dawn until well past sundown. Jovan has been with me constantly, as have Madani and Langer. I have seen Dumont only twice, both instances lasting less than five minutes when she stopped in to check on our progress. As for the chaser, I haven’t been shown a projection of it since that first time, and am no closer to knowing where the device is being kept.
The box containing the history book is always in the room with us in case it’s needed, but most of the time I work from photographic copies to “not damage the artifact.” I’ve been concentrating on the easier words—articles, prepositions, pronouns—drawing out the translation of each as long as I can, and then spending days applying the new word throughout the manuscript.
I know this is not how translations are typically done. A word-for-word exchange never works. But it’s the only way I can think of to keep the pace slow. Madani and Langer don’t seem to mind, and in fact appear to be relishing the experience. The only times they seem even slightly annoyed is right after one of Dumont’s visits. A reaction, I assume, to the professor’s desire for results. My plodding progress will not be tolerated much longer, but I intend to draw it out until that moment arrives. And when it does, I’ll find some other way to apply the brakes.
As I expected, the pictures and maps are the big problems. Not a day goes by without Madani or Langer or both asking me about one of the images. I’ve given explanations that make little sense to them, but that tactic will also soon wear thin.
Dinner waits for Jovan and me in our room when our work is done. Most nights, Jovan barely finishes his before stumbling to bed and passing out.
Not me.
Tonight, like on most nights, my eyes will remain open for sev
eral more hours before I allow myself to sleep. This is my thinking time, my planning time, my time to remember.
Usually, I walk around the compound, going over everything I know about the facility, adding in the few tidbits I may have picked up that day, and always ending by repeating over and over, “Find the chaser. Extract my blood. Dry it. Rekey the chaser. Make things right.” It helps focus me through the tedium, and keeps me from losing sight of my real purposes.
Without the chaser, I have no idea what the exact date is. The calendar they use here is not the same as in mine and Iffy’s worlds. The best I can figure is that it’s either late February or early March 2019, but I could be off by a week or two. All I know is, the nights are still chilly so we’re still in winter.
When I first started my nighttime walks, a soldier—seemingly a different one every night—followed me wherever I went. After a few days, though, whatever suspicions my actions garnered apparently eased to the point where my shadow was canceled.
I’m under no delusion this means I’m not still being watched. I’m sure the guards on the walls and those stationed in each of the buildings routinely report on my progress. Just as I’m sure the facility’s staff and student body do the same.
Though there’s a night here and there when I just wander as my mind whirls away, most evenings I use the time to familiarize myself with the grounds and the few buildings Jovan and I are now allowed to enter.
The building with the catwalk behind it remains on the off-limits list, but I have access to one that appears nearly identical. It doesn’t have the catwalk and offshoot to the beach attached to the back, but that’s the only outside difference I can see. If the interiors are the same, then the catwalk should be accessible via a room along the back that requires one of those special discs to enter.
Over the weeks, I’ve made a handful of what I’d call acquaintances, mostly students I acknowledge with a smile or a nod as we pass one another. The exceptions are the two professors and five students working in the observatory whom I’ve gotten to know a bit better.
My relationship with them started in response to me standing outside the building looking up at the stars. Eventually I was invited in and shown the telescope. The only other telescopes I’ve seen have been in books in other timelines, but this one doesn’t look all that dissimilar from them. The system here even uses computers to control the devices, and cameras and monitors to view the results.
The observatory team has grown used to my visits, so no one even bats an eye as I meander through the building. As impressive as the telescope setup is, however, I’m partial to the deck running around the outside of the domed roof. From there, if the fog hasn’t rolled in, I can see for miles and miles in every direction.
The main part of Saint Jakup—which I have learned is the name of the city that sits where San Diego would be—is hidden from Trinity by the undulating coastal terrain, but the glow of its lights rises into the sky with more intensity than I remember San Diego ever producing.
The city’s name is interesting. Jakup, if I’m not mistaken, is a variation of Jacob, which is itself a variation of James. Diego is the Spanish version of James. So in essence the city has the same name in both Iffy’s world and this one. Are there constants in time that are difficult to alter? It’s an interesting question, but one for which I’ll probably never know the answer.
On the distant hills lies a carpet of lights from the shanties we drove through on our way here. From my elevated position, I can even see most of the border between Skiron Sum and the neighboring district. The fence is lit by floodlights, drawing an illuminated line east from the ocean at least a dozen miles, where another line, distant but just as obvious, runs north for maybe twenty more miles before a third line heads back to the beach. The area inside the border is nowhere near as crowded as the land that surrounds it. The difference between the haves and have-nots.
For a while, I watch the lights of boats on the ocean—giant vessels traveling up and down the coast in groups of ten or more—then I gaze at the southern rail toward the place where my apartment would be. I can pretend I’m almost home, that soon I will be sharing a meal with my sister and my girlfriend, that I will be sleeping with Iffy in my arms. As happens every time I fall into this waking dream, it fades far too quickly.
With an ache in my heart, I head back downstairs.
The moment I reenter the main part of the observatory, Ravi says, “Denny, Denny. Here, please.” He speaks only Gaulish but has learned to keep his sentences simple for me.
He’s sitting at his station, excited. Several of the others are leaning in behind him, looking at his computer. I walk over and position myself so I can see his screen.
A bright blob about the size of a penny sits just off center in a field of black.
“Meercarious,” Ravi says.
“No understand.”
He tries to explain but I’m lost.
Another student, Clora, who speaks a little Latin, says, “Roma god. Meercarious.”
Mercury? That must be it.
I look at the screen again and think the blob is the planet. It was named by the Romans long before Lidia allowed the Mongols to have their way with Europe, so it wouldn’t be surprising if the name remained the same. But the blob is more oblong than round, and appears to be rotating end over end.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Meecarious,” Clora repeats. Then with one palm out like she’s about to pray single-handedly, she moves it steadily upward while emitting a static-like sound from her mouth. She’s talking about a spaceship.
“Where go?” I say, glancing at the screen.
She shakes her head and makes a fist with her left hand. After gesturing around the room with her right, she points at the fist and uses her right index finger to rotate around and around it.
Either it’s a ship temporarily orbiting Earth, or it’s a space station.
I think.
Who knows?
I watch for a while longer and then head for the door. As I near the exit, I notice the coatrack mounted to the nearby wall. I must have passed it a dozen times without even thinking about it. There are three cream-colored jackets and one gray one hanging from it. They are the equivalent of lab coats, cream for students and gray for professors. Attached to the gray and one of the cream are round discs that look exactly like what Dumont uses to unlock doors.
Will one of these unlock the doors of the catwalk building? My best bet is the one on the professor’s coat. I’m tempted to steal it right now and try it out, but I don’t. There’s likely a way to activate and deactivate the discs, and if someone discovers his or hers is missing, the person would report it and the disc would be turned off, making it useless. Any theft needs to wait until right before I’m ready to go.
At least now I know where to find one.
__________
I’M WORKING ON a section dealing with the Justinian era of the Byzantine Empire late one afternoon when the room shakes. A small earthquake, I think. Having grown up in this part of the world, I’m used to the earth moving so I barely glance up before returning to what I was doing.
The second shake is longer, accompanied by a distant thud. I don’t remember ever experiencing something like that before. Madani and Langer also appear concerned. They talk for a moment and then Madani rushes from the room.
“What’s going on?” I whisper to Jovan.
“I’m not sure. Stay ready.”
“Ready for what?”
He doesn’t answer, and instead moves his gaze back and forth between Langer and the door.
Another shake, longer still, with the same noise, only louder. No more than five seconds pass before the building rocks so hard, I have to grab the edge of the desk to keep from falling. At the same time, several light fixtures break loose from the ceiling, one swinging down and nearly hitting Jovan’s head.
A second later, the door flies open and Madani runs in, accompanied by three soldiers.
/> “The box!” he yells at Langer.
Already scared, I find it even more unnerving that she doesn’t ask him what’s going on. She simply grabs the box and runs toward him like she already knows.
As she reaches him, he shouts at Jovan and me, “Come, come!”
The rumbling and shaking return, this time seeming to go on and on and on. Much of the equipment that’s been sitting in the corridor has either toppled over or shifted position, forcing us to weave around the mess. And we aren’t the only ones hurrying to leave. Dozens of students are moving with us, slowing us down.
When we near the exit, the ground shakes so hard no one is left standing. Jovan helps me back to my feet. Langer is up also, the box clutched to her chest.
“Hurry!” she yells as she races outside, one of the guards right behind her.
I look around for Madani and the other two guards. I freeze.
A section of the corridor ceiling has fallen on them. The feet of the guards are sticking out from under the debris. I wish the same were true about Madani. He lies on the floor like he’s reaching out to me. Only where his head should be is a large chunk of concrete.
“Let’s go!” Jovan shouts, pulling my arm.
We rush outside into chaos—people running in all directions, some screaming, some yelling, some shaking in fear. While the sun is low on the horizon, there’s still plenty of light for me to pick out pillars of black and gray smoke rising from the land southeast of the compound.
“What the hell is going on?”
The moment the words are out of my mouth, an explosion about a quarter mile away throws a house high into the air. More explosions follow, each moving closer to our position.
As I look to the sky, thinking we’re being bombarded by an airplane, a shell flies directly over the compound and explodes in the ocean behind us. Not airplanes—cannons or rockets.
Jovan pulls at me again but I resist. “Which way did Langer go?” It’s not the woman I care about, but the book.
“What does it matter? We have to get out of here!”
I whirl around in a circle, and finally spot her climbing a ladder someone has set against a building three structures away. On the roof are several soldiers. When Langer reaches the top, Dumont steps out from behind the men. She, too, is holding a box. In my heart I know it contains the chaser.
Survivor (Rewinder Series Book 3) Page 5