by Rysa Walker
“Hurry back,” Simon says. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Is that even possible?” I mumble under my breath as I walk away. Simon clearly hears it, though, because he chuckles as he heads toward the conference room.
I grab my bag from the dining table and unzip it to drop Simon’s photo inside. It lands face up, and Deborah’s eyes look at me. The kid is holding something up for her to see and Deb seems so happy. Content. That’s how I want to think of her. That’s what I want for her. And I have no doubt that whatever Simon and Saul are plotting is going to destroy that.
REDWING DINING HALL
OBJECTIVIST CLUB
WASHINGTON, EC
Day 273—July 22, 2306, 9:20 p.m.
We’ve eaten at my place or at Tate’s every night since I arrived. I really haven’t been in a mood to deal with Morgen Campbell. But I need to leave tomorrow afternoon if I’m going to have any hope of making my curfew, and Tate’s probably right that it would be a bad idea to dis the old man entirely. So we’re sitting here at a table in Redwing Hall, the same table Campbell eats at every night.
“Saul has always been…complicated,” Campbell says, when I tell him about Gizmo. He takes another sip of his drink, that green stuff he always seems to like after dinner, and then adds, “I wouldn’t read too much into the thing with your animal.”
I glance down at Cyrus, who is snoring loudly by his owner’s feet. “Yeah? What would you do if he snapped your dog’s neck?”
“I’d have security toss him off the top of the OC and cheer from my balcony when he splatted on the sidewalk below. But you’re missing the point. Saul was raised around pets that weren’t really alive. Cyrus is a rare exception. You’ve seen the pets around here. Designer doggies. No poop, and you pick the color, style, and degree of intelligence. Some might disagree with me on this point, but I don’t consider those sentient life forms. From Saul’s point of view, if your pet malfunctions, you simply dismantle it before it does any more damage, and order a replacement. You wouldn’t think twice about it.”
“Giz wasn’t a robo-pup!”
Tate gives my arm a squeeze and then looks back at Campbell. “I think you’re the one missing the point, Morgen. The dog isn’t really the issue. It’s what the dog meant to Pru. Saul knew it would hurt her and he didn’t care. It was cruel.”
I stay quiet, because I’d rather avoid getting emotional, and I don’t disagree at all with Tate’s statement that it was cruel. But he’s wrong on one point. Gizmo is the issue. Saul had no right to harm him.
“Well,” Campbell says, “let’s keep in mind you’ve never had experience as a father. What’s the saying, cruel to be kind? Maybe Saul thought of it as discipline. Misguided,” he adds when he sees my expression, “but discipline nonetheless.”
“If that’s your idea of discipline,” Tate says, “I can see why you and Alisa are barely on speaking terms. But to get back to the main point of the conversation, my biggest concern is how long we have before CHRONOS realizes the spare keys are gone. For all I know they monitor activity in the backroom. We could show up at the museum tomorrow and find that Sutter has a picture of you blinking in and out.”
“Well, you’re safe for the next two days, at least,” I tell him. “I already worked tomorrow’s shift, and Tuesday’s as well.” I’ve actually worked six shifts since I arrived, mostly helping one of the researchers organize the late twentieth century files, but also answering questions about the 1980s for two school groups. It’s not exactly my idea of fun, but it beats hell out of playing Sister Prudence. The key reason I worked those shifts, however, is that Tate’s cover will be blown if I skip out entirely. If CHRONOS decides to come looking for me, they’ll start by questioning him.
“Personally,” Campbell says, “I’m more worried about someone noticing changes to the timeline. I disconnected the field we set up here in the OC, but how many people does the government have under a CHRONOS field? I seriously doubt that Tate and I are the only ones.”
Tate has the bracelet that Sutter made for me on a chain beneath his shirt. I left it with him both to make sure he’d remember if things suddenly changed, and to keep from tripping Sutter’s alarm with my travels through space and time.
But Campbell?
Tate’s clearly thinking the same thing. “You never have explained how you’re still under a field when Pru has your key.”
Campbell gives him a sly grin. “Connections, my boy. And some of those connections would like Saul to succeed. They might not admit it openly, but they’d like to see CHRONOS reopened, and they’d like to see these barbaric International Genetics Accords abolished. They’d like a system that rewards initiative over blind equality. And I think they’d be willing to…overlook…any tweaks in the timeline that work toward that goal.” He adds, almost as an afterthought, “And, of course, that mitigate the damage Pru’s mother caused.”
“Do you think this war—the one that started in Africa—was really her fault?” I ask. “You’re sure it didn’t happen before CHRONOS was destroyed and those historians were left in the past?”
Tate and I have already discussed this issue at length. The simple truth is that he can’t know one way or the other. He wasn’t under a key when the headquarters building was attacked. If history changed around him, he wouldn’t have known.
Campbell did have a key back then, but he swears he didn’t start wearing it until after he heard about the explosion at CHRONOS. If that’s true—and like anything Campbell says, I wouldn’t guarantee it—then he also wouldn’t know if anything changed.
“I have no evidence either way,” Campbell says. “Saul was the one under a key. He’d certainly know better than any of us if history started spinning off in a new direction. And he’d be in a better position than anyone else to figure out how it might be repaired.”
“But,” he says, leaning forward, “here’s the catch. So far, all I’ve seen from Saul Rand is another piss-ant cult leader. Yes, he’s got more followers than most, and yes, he’s moved some money away from other religions. Your Cyrist International has appropriated a few of their charities, inserted a few people into positions they wouldn’t have obtained otherwise. But Saul hasn’t changed a damn thing of importance, at least not anything that’s filtered forward to this day and time. And I don’t think he will. Go back and tell your Brother Cyrus I believe he’s about two moves away from checkmate. In the end, I’ll win.”
I cannot for the life of me figure out Morgen Campbell. One second it seems like he wants Saul to succeed. They appear to have the same political goals. Neither one is a fan of this genetics agreement, whatever it entails. Both claim to want CHRONOS back up and running.
The very next second, however, Campbell says something that makes me think he’s rooting for the universe to come crashing down around Saul’s ears. And while I’d love to join him in that wish, that means the universe will come crashing down around my ears, too, so…
“So, you’re more interested in winning than in seeing any sort of meaningful change?” I ask. “I have no love for Saul, but the Cyrist environmental programs he’s put together are helping reverse the damage of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The Cyrist educational system increased literacy by nearly three percent in the developing countries where we’re operating within the space of five years. The birthrate and hunger are both steadily declining. And that’s just the result of programs started in the twentieth century. We don’t have to leave it there! Think about how much good could be accomplished if I go back a century. Find a few visionaries and help push them in the right direction. I was looking at this one woman, Victoria Woodhull. She had so much charisma, and a lot of good ideas, and I was thinking—”
“A drop in the bucket,” Campbell interrupts. “Reformers come and go. The type of changes you’re talking about will mean nothing over the course of decades. People may unite for a short time to do good, but they’ll only stay together if there’s a solid profit t
o be made—and that’s entirely as it should be. The profit motive will conflict with the do-gooder agenda pretty much every time. This little scheme of Saul’s—of yours, too, I guess—simply isn’t sustainable.”
We continue to argue for a few more minutes, but even Campbell looks weary. I guess I’m not as good a sparring partner as Saul. Maybe it’s because I can’t muster up much passion for the ideas of a man I personally detest.
I’m in too deep now to back out. Doing that would just leave all of the power in the hands of Saul and Simon. It’s just hard to see how I can preserve the good elements of Saul’s vision without embracing the bad.
And it’s even harder to see how I can change anything they’re planning without losing my mind along the way.
Later, when Tate and I are back at my place, I lie next to him, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his shoulder beneath my head as he sleeps. Over and over again this past week, I’ve heard the voice of my older self in my head, saying that Tate and I don’t last. As much as I hate it, I know she’s probably right. I know she must be right, unless I plan to create a whole host of double memories and make my future self even crazier.
I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know about Saul and Simon’s plans for Deb’s daughter. For Kate. I don’t like the fact that my niece is working with Mother, but I no longer believe that there are clear sides in all of this. It’s not black or white, good or evil, from where I’m standing. Here in the middle, everything looks gray.
The only thing I know for certain is that I don’t want Deb’s life to suck. I saw the way she looked at the little girl in that picture. If something they do erases that kid, part of Deb will die. And if they erase Mother, Deb will never even exist. I won’t either, if someone snatches my key.
Suddenly, the CHRONOS key embedded in my older self’s arm makes a lot more sense.
I’m thinking more and more that I’ve made a mess of things. And maybe the only way to handle that mess is to follow my conscience, one tiny, incremental step at a time. Baby steps, while I still can, and for as long as I still can. Because I’ve seen the future, in more ways than one. Eventually, my grip on reality will start to crumble and I won’t be good for much of anything other than cryptic warnings in the middle of the night and yanking the stuffing out of teddy bears.
I press a kiss against Tate’s neck. He mumbles and turns toward me, but it takes a lot to wake a Viking. I slip out from under his arm and he clutches my pillow instead. I’ll come back later to tell Tate goodbye—hell, I have to come back and keep my appointment with the Juvapod unless I want Saul scrubbing this tattoo off with a Brillo Pad.
But first, I have to go and do this one little thing.
Before I lose my nerve.
Before Saul and Simon erase my sister’s smile.
THE FARM
ESTERO, FLORIDA
Day 273—May 30, 2030, 6:50 p.m.
I step outside, onto the stoop at the side entrance. Saul has the doors of Founder’s House set to auto-lock for security reasons, but we all find ways to get around it. I pick up a little stone I keep at the corner of the top step and wedge it between the door and the jamb so that I can get back in without going around to the front. From here, I’ll be able to see Kiernan when he comes back from the river.
Ignoring the inner voice that sounds a little like Older-Me and a lot like Mother, I park myself on the bottom step and light up a cigarette while I wait. It’s one of the old-fashioned kind, without a filter, and it’s more for show than anything else. I wouldn’t smoke at all, except for the fact that Saul finds it disgusting. Not the nasty cigars that Simon smokes, however. Those are apparently okay. Saul is the king of double standards.
When I’m about halfway done with the cigarette, the door behind me opens.
“Hey, Pru.”
It’s Kiernan, standing in the doorway. He looks a lot more like his father now that he’s grown up. I glance back over at the barn, confused. “Thought you came in at the stable?”
“No,” he says, but he looks a little uncomfortable. “Should you…you know, be here?” Kiernan nods toward the Planetary Court, which makes me wonder how many times he’s been there with my older self.
I like his voice. It has a nice lilt, just a faint touch of his father’s thick Irish brogue.
He comes down the first two stairs, as I’m putting the cigarette out on the step next to me.
“The old lady won’t be out for another ten minutes or so,” I tell him. “Saul’s in his secret lair, meditating or eating babies, or whatever he does in there, now that he’s finished going over his grand plans with the Rat Bastard.”
Kiernan’s lips twitch upward, which tells me that even if he is friends with Simon, he’s aware that the guy has issues. I push myself to standing and head back inside. As I reach for the door, I’m hit by a wave of doubt. This is almost certainly a waste of time. Simon told Saul that Kiernan doesn’t remember this girl, this Kate.
I’m tempted to just blink out from here and crawl back into bed with Tate, but who knows what tales Kiernan might take back to Simon.
I push past him and kick the rock out of the way. “You coming?” I ask, since he’d have to go around the long way if I close the door behind me.
“Yeah.”
I expect him to turn toward the conference room when I take a right at the hallway, but he follows me toward the kitchen instead.
“Listen, Pru—I need to talk to you.”
I sigh and keep walking. At what age did my older self start fooling around with him?
“Not a good idea, Kiernan. You know that.”
“Yes, but this involves you. It’s about your sister and—”
I whirl around to face him. “God, Kiernan, how stupid are you? Shut up or they’ll hear you!”
Grabbing his arm, I drag him down the hall and into the dining room. I glance at the clock and see that it’s almost six fifty-four. Any second now, Simon will be in the kitchen, chatting with that Ron guy. Talking about their plan. And while I don’t know exactly what they’re plotting, I do know that it involves Deb’s daughter.
I hear voices off in the distance, so I push Kiernan back against the wall next to the china cabinet and stare at him, hard. Then I nod toward the door that leads to the kitchen.
Kiernan steps forward. He looks toward the kitchen, as the voices grow louder.
I pull up the stable point I set next to my bed where Tate is sleeping.
I don’t know for certain that what Simon says over the next minute will make any sense to Kiernan. I can’t risk asking him. I’m not even sure I’d know what to ask. But his mention of my sister when we were in the hallway gives me hope. If Kiernan remembers that I have a sister, I’m pretty sure he remembers that I have a niece, too, and she’s clearly someone he cared about.
And what’s the harm in leaving him here to listen? Simon’s comments about Kate and my mother will either mean something to Kiernan or they won’t.
Whatever happens, the ball will be in his court now. I’ve done all that I can.
“Who is—” Kiernan starts, but I blink out before he finishes his question.
OBJECTIVIST CLUB, ROOM 1013
WASHINGTON, EC
Day 274—July 23, 2306, 1:17 a.m.
Tate doesn’t even stir when I slip back into bed next to him. I lift his arm and rest my head on his shoulder again. He’s my favorite pillow.
I lie there and imagine a world where I control Cyrist International. Where I make certain it does the right thing, whatever that may be.
A world without Saul and Simon.
For the first time in ages, I drift off to sleep with a smile on my face.
And Other-Me, the girl with the jagged rock, is nowhere in sight.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This note will be short, mostly because Pru’s story doesn’t contain a lot of history, aside from the 1980s. If you don’t remember that era, go ask your parents. There is a good bit of future history in this novella, but to give
details about that would, to paraphrase my friend, River Song, constitute spoilers. And we really shouldn’t go there.
I once again tip my hat to each and every one of the friends, family, and early readers that I mentioned at the end of Time’s Edge— thank you for all that you do. All of you have been tireless champions of this series and many of you gave feedback and advice that helped to shape this work, tying up any loose ends, and addressing at least some of the “head scratchers” that come with time travel stories. Any that remain are my fault, not yours, and will hopefully be satisfied in October 2015, when the final CHRONOS Files book, Time’s Divide, hits the bookshelves.
Thanks go out to my team at Skyscape, the publisher for The CHRONOS Files books, and to Courtney Miller, my editor, for her flexibility in letting me to go "hybrid" with the two novellas.
Special thanks and appreciation to my family, far and near. You keep me inspired and focused.
Finally, this one is dedicated, with gratitude, to my Mama. (For those who don’t speak Southern, that translates as “Mom,” not “Mother.”) She did her best to keep this voracious reader in books during my childhood—something that wasn’t easy in the era before Kindles and computers. More importantly, she always supported my dreams and aspirations, even the ones that might not have seemed achievable. Some of them fell by the wayside—for one thing, I no longer have any desire to be the governor of Florida—but through it all, she’s always been there to cheer me on.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RYSA WALKER is the author of the bestselling CHRONOS Files series. Timebound, the first book in the series, was the Young Adult and Grand Prize winner in the 2013 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards.
Rysa grew up on a cattle ranch in the South, where she read every chance she got. On the rare occasion that she gained control of the television, she watched Star Trek and imagined living in the future, on distant planets, or at least in a town big enough to have a stop light.