Time's Mirror: A CHRONOS Files Novella (The CHRONOS Files)

by Rysa Walker

  I give him my best sexy smile. “She wasn’t actually a kid. You just weren’t looking close enough.”

  “I guess not. And judging from the music, I see you’ve learned to navigate the entertainment options. You may not even want this.”

  “You fixed my headphones?”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out my Walkman, no longer shattered. “I swiped it from the side pocket of your bag today when you were in the lav…hope you don’t mind? I’d have asked, but I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “You found batteries? Coralys said they don’t make those anymore, that they couldn’t even replicate them.”

  “Well, not exactly. A guy I know over in historical tech wedged something in there that will work as a power source…should last a whole lot longer than batteries. Fixed the front cover, too.”

  Once he has the headphones over my ears he pushes play and the announcer says, “…peaking at number six on the charts in July, coming at number sixty-three, ‘Come Dancing’!”

  Then The Kinks start singing, but it’s the voice in the background that stops my heart. Deb is yelling, “Told you, told you, told you! The Kinks. ‘Come Dancing.’ Right there at number sixty-three. I hit it on the nose. Five points for me!”

  Even with the stabilizers, my heels feel a little shaky right now.

  “Are you okay? Pru?”

  I hug him, partly to mask my emotion, but also because this was really thoughtful. “Thank you so much.”

  Tate’s back stiffens when I press against him. He doesn’t push me away, but he doesn’t really return the hug, either—just sort of pats me on the back and steps away.

  “There’s a second part to the surprise,” he says. “The CHRONOS music archives took a bit of a hit in the bombing, but they’re gradually getting the stuff they stored off-site back into the system. My friend Dana let me in this afternoon so I could put together this…she said you used to call it a mixtape?”

  I nod. The tape part is right, at any rate, although I can’t remember anyone ever saying mixtape.

  “I didn’t have another cassette, and I didn’t want to record over the ones with your sister, so…Octavia, play Tate Poulsen music list, Mixtape 1984, reverse order, with position, artist, and title.”

  There’s a brief pause and then Octavia says, “Number 100. James Ingram and Michael McDonald. ‘Yah Mo B There.’”

  The song starts, confirming my worst fears. Without me there to keep tabs on it, 1980s music is going straight into the dumper. Even Deb made fun of that tune. Oh well, at least it barely made the list.

  Of course, I don’t actually say how much the song sucks, because that would sound ungrateful.

  “Thank you.” I smile up at him—even in these heels, the only way to smile at Tate is up—and squeeze his arm, resisting the urge to hug him again. Being pushed away once is quite enough for one evening.

  Maybe he’s gay?

  And then the little voice at the back of my head that sounds just like Mother chimes in.

  More likely he thinks you look like a little kid playing dress-up. Couldn’t you have found something more age appropriate?

  Oh, shut up, Mother.

  Once we’re in the elevator, Tate gives me another long look. His eyes are still a little uneasy, but he smiles. “Did I mention you look really nice? That color is perfect on you.”

  “Thanks.” I look away quickly, partly because I’m nervous and partly because I don’t really believe him after his initial reaction.

  When the door slides open on level two, my first thought is that we’re outside. It’s only after we step into the corridor that I realize we’re overlooking a sunken room that just resembles a forest at sunset. The walls are a panorama of trees. There’s a brook off in the distance, and the ceiling is lit in streaks of orange, pink, and purple. Orbs of light about the size of tennis balls dance in the air above the guests’ heads, like giant fireflies or incandescent bubbles, bobbing and weaving as people move about. It’s almost as though I’m walking into a scene from The Hobbit or A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  The music has an otherworldly feel too, like something you’d hear at the Renaissance festival we go to each year—except even weirder. It’s like all of the Ren-nerds are playing their tunes on electrical instruments, or one of those bizarre theremin things, instead of flutes and lyres.

  There are far more people than I expected, clustered in small groups, some eating, some talking, a few…I guess they’re dancing? While it’s probably the only kind of dance you could do to this music—fluid and trancelike—it would get them laughed off the floor at the 9:30 Club.

  Tate’s already in the hallway, but I instinctively take a step back into the lift. After my little adventure earlier at the Juvapod infodesk, I can’t help but wonder how welcome I’ll really be.

  “I’m sorry. I’m just…maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  He shakes his head, grinning as he grabs my arm. “Oh, no. I’d hate for the first impression you leave on your new colleagues to be me carrying you into Greenwich Hall. Because I will.”

  I narrow my eyes, but don’t move.

  “Come on, Pru. Campbell is expecting you. You have to meet him at some point. And…it would be a waste to go hide in your room, when you look this gorgeous.”

  Okay, that wins me over.

  “Fine.” I take the arm he’s holding out. “But don’t wander off. I don’t know these people and some of them…”

  I don’t finish the sentence, and he shoots me a questioning look. I was going to say some of them would be happier if he’d left me in the rubble of the CHRONOS building, but I just give him a nervous smile.

  “Nothing. Let’s do this.”

  We walk down the short flight of stairs and into the room itself. The aroma of bacon—which always smells good even if I don’t eat it—hits my nose as we turn the corner. Tate snags two glasses from a tray and hands one to me. It looks like champagne. I don’t object, since I have no idea what the alcohol laws are in this time. Or maybe it doesn’t even have alcohol anymore? I take a sip and discover that the bubbles are nice. It might actually be good if I could add a packet of Sweet’n Low.

  Tate seems a little distracted, craning his neck around like he’s looking for someone. After a moment or two, he relaxes.

  “Come on. Let’s go meet Campbell.”

  We make our way through the room toward a back corner, where an older man sits in a high-backed chair. Like Tate, he’s head and shoulders above everyone else. As we get closer, I see why. The chair is on a raised platform.

  The man reminds me of a cartoon we saw in history class last year. Some New York City politician named Tweed. Big nose, big belly, more hair on the bottom half of his head than on the top. A cigar is chomped between his teeth, and he looks out over the room like it’s his kingdom. One of the lighted orbs floating around the room dips down to intercept a curl of smoke rising above the man’s head. The overweight black dog stretched out at his feet, gnawing on a large bone, doesn’t look particularly friendly.

  “Is that Morgen Campbell up on the throne?”

  Tate chuckles. “As much as you probably don’t want to hear it, that’s exactly what Saul called it.”

  “Seems pretty obvious to me. Is his dog nice?”

  “Not especially. But I’ve never known Cyrus to bite, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  I still keep a wary eye on the creature as we approach the Royal Lord of the OC. His gaze flickers in our direction when we’re still a few yards away, but he waits until we’re right in front of him to actually look at us.

  “Ah, Poulsen. And this must be the infamous Ms. Shaw.” My expression must shift a bit at the name, because he adds, “Or do you go by Rand?”

  “Neither. Prudence Pierce. You can just call me Pru.”

  He nods and gives me a more thorough appraisal, taking in the dress. “Even if you choose to abandon their names, I must say you’re a delightful combination of your parent
al DNA. I do wish Saul were here to see you. It would be interesting to see whether paternal instinct would keep him from drooling down your cleavage.”

  Okay, this guy is a creep. I have absolutely no idea how to respond to his comment, so I just glance up at Tate.

  “Ignore him, Pru. Morgen just likes to see if he can get a rise out newbies.”

  “On the contrary. I simply like to assess the mental prowess of the people around me. In Ms. Rand—I beg your pardon, in Pru’s case, she looks like an adult. Very much like an adult, in fact. Still, I suspect there’s a scared little girl hiding inside. It’s nice to see that you’re putting our amenities to excellent use…or did Poulsen dress you?”

  “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, Mr. Campbell.”

  “It’s just Campbell. Or Morgen, if you prefer. And I’m sure you’re very capable, but just to put your mind at ease, the information attendant in the Juvapod center has been fired.”

  My first inclination is to ask how he knew about the incident, but who knows what sort of surveillance Campbell has in this place. My second inclination is to say that he didn’t need to fire the man, but then I think about what very nearly happened. I’d look like the woman in that Star Trek movie if another customer hadn’t overheard the exchange and warned me to carefully specify which sections of your body when you ordered hair removal.

  “What happened at the Juvapods?” Tate asks me. “You said—”

  “Just a…miscommunication.” I turn back to Campbell. “I’m glad to see that you don’t tolerate incompetent employees.”

  “Oh, it was neither miscommunication nor incompetence, my dear. It was revenge, pure and simple. That man’s daughter was a makeup artist at CHRONOS, and, unlike your friend Poulsen, she did not receive a message that conveniently kept her out of the building that fateful day.”

  Tate’s arm tenses beneath my fingers. This is the first I’ve heard about any warning message.

  Still, as furious as I was at the attendant, this puts a somewhat different light on the situation.

  “I didn’t know,” I tell Campbell. “Maybe…I mean, it still wasn’t right, but maybe you should reconsider.”

  Campbell laughs. “Somehow I doubt you’d be quite as magnanimous if those gorgeous curls weren’t still on your head. No, the man put his own feelings before the interests of the OC, and that’s beyond pardon.” He raises his bushy eyebrows, looking over our heads at the crowd, and then settles back into his chair with a smug look.

  I find out why two seconds later. A woman walks up next to Tate and gives me a brief, scathing stare before pasting on a fake smile. Her dark red hair is stacked up in an ornate style that reminds me of a lattice piecrust. I can see through it in spots to the walls beyond and little ribbons of blue light are wound through the rows of hair. More of those very same ribbons make up her dress, except it’s skin that shows through there. A lot of skin.

  “Surely this can’t be the child CHRONOS has you babysitting, Tate? She looks a bit old for you to be fixing her toys.”

  “Hi, Dana.” Tate’s voice is tired, and I get the feeling I now know what—or rather who—he was looking around the room and hoping he didn’t find when we walked in. “This is Prudence Pierce. She’s not…as old as she looks.”

  I wish I could sink into the floor.

  “That’s true.” Campbell’s tone is cheerful, making it clear that he’s thoroughly enjoying our discomfort. “She’s what, sixteen? But I doubt that’s a problem for Poulsen. From what Saul told me, his taste runs toward…younger women.”

  Campbell’s eyes slide back over to Dana as he says the last sentence. Dana is stunning, especially in that dress, but she’s also clearly older than Tate. Her mouth flops open twice, like she’s trying to think of something to say. Instead, she pivots around on her stilettos (which make my heels look like Mary Janes) and stomps off into the crowd.

  Tate runs one hand through his hair and then looks down at me. “Dana’s a friend. I don’t want her to leave angry. Are you okay here for a moment, Pru?”

  The very last thing I want is to stand here talking to this creepazoid while Tate goes off after his girlfriend. But I’m not going to admit it. “Sure. I’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks. Just…wait here, okay?” Then he starts pushing back through the crowd.

  “Poulsen should know that sex with friends is a bad idea,” Campbell says. “So many ways it can go sour. And he should also know better than to entrust Saul Rand with a secret. No offense.”

  “None taken. I don’t even know Saul.”

  And even though I really don’t want to ask this next question, this secret he mentioned had something to do with Tate liking younger women. I can’t resist asking, but I try to toss the question out casually, like I’m just idly curious. “What sort of secret did Saul tell you? About…Tate.”

  Campbell arches one bushy brow. “Saul collected secrets. Sounds like you may have inherited his curiosity.”

  I shrug. “Just making conversation.”

  Silence.

  “All right!” I admit. “Yes. I’m curious.”

  “Very well. Poulsen was involved with a girl about your age in the past.” He chuckles. “In the very, very distant past, if you get my drift, in some Viking village. He’s just lucky Saul helped keep it off his official record. CHRONOS has—or I guess I should say, had—very strict rules on that sort of thing.”

  “Oh. So, that’s why he hopes they’ll rebuild CHRONOS. So he can see her again.”

  “I doubt it. Saul said it ended badly. Hardly a surprise. Long-distance relationships rarely work out.” He pauses, staring at me like he’s waiting for something, and then says, “Now it’s your turn.”

  “What?”

  “Your…turn. I gave you information that you can use to your advantage if you’re smart. Now you reciprocate. I’m sure that’s how the game works in your time as well.”

  “But…I don’t know anything that would interest you.”

  “On the contrary. Your mother went to all this trouble to strand herself in the past. I’m curious as to what she’s doing with her life in…the 1980s, right? How has she used her knowledge of the future? I suppose she’s quite wealthy by now.”

  I snort. “No. She’s a history professor, like my dad. I mean, we’re not poor, but—”

  “A shame,” Campbell says, tsking softly. “I’d hoped the speculation was wrong. That Kathy actually did it for something other than spite. Other than wanting revenge on Saul for his…wandering libido.” He waves a hand, looking over my shoulder at someone. “And on that topic, let me introduce my daughter, Alisa.”

  He’s still laughing at his own joke when the woman reaches us. She doesn’t look much like Campbell. Her hair is a vivid, metallic silver, long and jagged with dozens of different layers, shot through with thin strands of black. Combined with her pale skin and wide-set light green eyes, she reminds me a little of this lynx I saw at a zoo last summer, while visiting my dad’s parents up in Massachusetts.

  “Did you want something?” Although Alisa’s voice is several octaves higher than her father’s, it has the same bored, cynical note.

  “Only a moment of your time, sweetest.”

  Even though Alisa doesn’t seem any more pleasant than the old man, I feel a momentary twinge of sympathy. Rotten to have your father call you sweetest in public. Doubly rotten to have the word come out dripping with sarcasm.

  Alisa tosses her silver mane over one shoulder. “Clock’s ticking, Morgen.”

  “I just thought you might like to meet Saul and Kathy’s daughter.”

  She gives me a quick once-over. “Kids grow up so quickly these days. Seems like only last year she was nothing more than a gleam in Saul’s eye.”

  “A gleam you saw quite often, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Alisa responds to Campbell’s comment with a suggestion that’s both physically impossible and entirely disrespectful to her father. I expect him to take offense, but he just lau
ghs.

  “I hear CHRONOS will have you on display at the new museum,” she says, looking back at me.

  “Not exactly. I’ll be working there.”

  “Well, good luck with that.” Her eyes flicker briefly with something that looks a bit like pity before she strolls off.

  The champagne churns in my stomach. Alisa is probably closer to the truth about my new job at CHRONOS than I am. How many of the visitors will stop in simply to gawk at the girl from the past, like I’m a Neanderthal or something? Granted, they probably won’t put me in a cage. They’ll just pop me on a vintage beanbag chair with my newly repaired Walkman. Maybe Tate asked his buddy to repair it just so I’d have a prop to hold.

  I don’t actually believe that. He seemed too happy about giving it to me for it to be work related. But it’s been much longer than the moment he promised. I scan the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of his head above the crowd.

  I can feel Campbell’s eyes scrutinizing me. “Can she still use it?” he asks when I finally glance over. He must see confusion in my eyes, because he clarifies, “The key. Can Kathy still operate it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her with it.”

  “Does she know you can use it?”

  “No-o-o,” I say, although now that he has me thinking about it, I guess she might have suspected I’d be able to use it when I found the medallion in the jewelry box. “She took it away when I said I could see the color, but then I found another one.”

  He shrugs. “Not too surprising. She was probably worried you’d try to undo her damage.”

  I’ve definitely thought about this, but I haven’t had the nerve to discuss it with anyone.

  “Do you think I could?” I ask. “I mean, could I go back to just before the explosion and warn someone?”

  As I say it, my mind is already spinning. It would save a lot of lives. But they’d arrest her, almost certainly. Deb and I would be born here, probably in prison. Dad…wouldn’t be my dad. It would be this Saul person I don’t even know. And would he even want us?

  Campbell doesn’t respond for a moment. He just watches me, and I get the strangest sense that he knows everything I’m thinking.