by Wendy Nikel
And who’d been the one to call in the National Guard in the first place—after Rockefeller, the owner of the Colorado Fuel & Mining Corporation, offered to provide their wages?
Governor Elias M. Ammons.
I tuck away my glasses. Today’s the seventeenth; I still have time to prevent this disaster. All I have to do is convince him to withdraw the final two National Guard companies still stationed in Ludlow before the gunfire begins.
“Mr. Ammons, sir?” I say quietly, stealing a glance over my shoulder to where Mrs. Wallace is still hovering. “I need to speak with you privately. It’s about the mining strike in Ludlow.”
The governor’s brow furrowed. “What’s all this? Who sent you, girl?”
“Nobody sent me.” I shake my head and drop my voice even lower. “I have information about what’s going to happen. What the National Guard in Ludlow are planning, and if they carry through on this, it’ll cause a tragedy with far-reaching effects. You have to withdraw the Guard immediately, regardless of what Rockefeller says.”
Ammons’s frown deepens into a scowl. “I don’t know who you think you are or what information you think you have, but I can assure you, the mining situation in Ludlow is entirely under control. I’d advise you to concern yourself with the matters of this dining car and leave matters of governance to those with that authority, young lady.”
“You don’t understand,” I hiss. “I’m from the future—from the year 2133—and the only reason your name even makes the history books is because you allowed this to happen.”
Governor Ammons rises to his feet, but before he can do or say anything further, the house mother is at my side more quickly than seems possible.
“What’s going on here?” Mrs. Wallace asks.
The governor takes his seat once more and adjusts his collar. Before he can speak up, though, the woman at the table beside us—who, until this point had only been sitting there with her bowl of soup—speaks up.
“The young lady was just helping me out. I asked her to inquire about the gentleman at the next table. I thought I’d recognized him from somewhere.” She lifts a gloved hand to Ammons. “Good afternoon, Governor. I apologize for any awkwardness.”
The governor’s brow furrows; I can imagine the gears turning in his head, trying to piece together what’s going on here.
“Could you tell me what time it is?” the woman asks.
I glance down at my watch. “Eleven-fifteen.”
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Wallace has had her lips pursed together through the conversation, but when the woman at the next table looks away, she turns to the governor. “Miss Argent is one of our new girls; I’m sure any of our other waitresses would have handled the situation with more poise and discretion.” She turns an eagle-eye look of warning onto me. “This way, Miss Argent. I believe we’ll keep you on table settings for today.”
I glance back before following Mrs. Wallace, uncertain whether I should thank the woman at table three or not. Instead of acknowledging me, she simply stares, a curious expression upon her smooth, demure face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After the debacle with the governor, Mrs. Wallace doesn’t allow me more than an arm’s length from her side. I spend the rest of my twelve-hour shift folding napkins, setting tables, and being lectured about the proper etiquette to which Harvey Girls must keep. I’m not even allowed to sit as I fold the napkins but spend the rest of the shift on my feet. Even in this era, I’ll bet I could find convents that aren’t so strict.
Meanwhile, the train rolls on westward and my mind wanders to the conversation with the governor and what I could have—what I should have—done differently. If only I could have sat him down, shown him the PVDs, and forced him to listen somehow. I realize that time travel is a difficult concept to accept. Less than a week ago, I’d thought it was impossible, too. But how will I ever be able to prevent the Great War if no one believes my warnings?
The train stops at small towns here and there—La Junta, El Moro, Trinidad, Raton, until late evening, at which point all I can think of is the warm bed, clean sheets, and soft pillow of my bunk. How nice would it be to simply stop moving, to not have to hold up my head or arms or body?
However, when the dining car finally closes and the other girls hustle back to the berth, Mrs. Wallace holds me back to lecture me yet again about my behavior and warn me that such sloppiness will not be acceptable.
Alice, Mary, and Fanny are already in the tiny compartment when I’m finally able to get away from Mrs. Wallace. When I arrive in the berth, they’re busy untying their aprons and pulling their hair from their hairnets. Outside in the corridor, I’d heard them talking and laughing, but as soon as I slide the door open, the conversation dies on their lips. My feet drag across the threshold, indecisive about what I ought to do. What I ought to say.
“Here.” Fanny steps forward and holds out an envelope. Alice and Mary look on with unabashed curiosity, their hands still working as if of their own volition, unbuttoning buttons and rolling locks of hair into curlers, though all their attention is focused on me.
“What is this?” I ask, taking the envelope.
“We’re hoping you’ll tell us,” Fanny says. “The truth, this time.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“A woman in the dining car snuck it to me, asked me to give it to Miss Argent and not to tell our house mother.”
“You didn’t tell her, did you?” It’s a stupid question; I know as soon as I say it. If they’d told Mrs. Wallace, she’d have confiscated it. After all, one of the rules she’d drilled into me throughout the day was to maintain a professional distance from the diners. I’m pretty sure that means I shouldn’t be accepting notes from them.
Fanny shrugs. “I told you: us Harvey Girls have got to stick together. You think we like all these rules any more than you do?”
“Oh, don’t get us wrong,” Alice jumps in. “We’re proud to be Harvey Girls and glad that folks know we’re respectable women. We’re treated well and paid well, and that’s not something to take for granted.”
The others nod solemnly.
“It’s a good job,” Fanny agrees. “And we need these jobs. That’s why we do what it takes to keep them. Even if it does involve stretching the truth a bit. Or telling harmless white lies. Or keeping our mouths shut about things like envelopes or spectacles or certain clerks’ admiring glances. You’re one of us now, and we look out for each other.”
I nod slowly and study the envelope. My heart feels heavy, guilty. I haven’t lied to them, not really, but they think I have, and that’s bad enough. Maybe a harmless white lie isn’t such a bad idea. The problem is: I still don’t know how to come up with a lie that they’ll believe.
“Well, go on,” Mary says, flopping down on her bed in her nightgown. “Open it up.”
I run my thumb along the edge of the envelope. I have no idea what this letter will say, but this fast camaraderie is entirely new to me. I hadn’t even been so close with Kenzi, and we’d roomed together for months. Still… they’re right. Times are different now. It’s a tough world for women. We need the companionship, need to trust one another.
I tear the envelope open and slip out the letter, skimming it silently to myself first before reading it aloud.
“Dear Miss Argent. My name is Madeline Barker of the New York Barkers. I wish to speak with you about the interaction that took place this morning in the dining car. We may be able to assist one another in our goals. I am in Suite 24A and will be awaiting you following your day’s shift.”
“What does it mean?” Mary asks.
“I don’t know.”
Fanny shoots an “I-told-you-so” glance at the others, and I realize I have to come up with something believable—something that doesn’t have to do with time travel—or I’ll crush every bit of goodwill I’ve built over the past few minutes.
“That is, I don’t know for sure,” I say, stalling. I turn over the letter, half-
hoping to find some sort of postscript scribbled on the back. There’s nothing. Finally, I think of an idea. “I think she overheard Mrs. Wallace talking to me, though, about how I don’t make a particularly good Harvey Girl. Maybe she has a new job opportunity for me. Do you think I ought to go?”
I glance around, trying to read their expressions to see if they believe me.
“You have to,” Fanny says matter-of-factly.
“I do?” Her enthusiasm surprises me. “Why?”
“So we don’t all go mad with curiosity, of course.” Fanny snatches up the skirt and blouse I’d worn to the train station and hands them to me. “Go on, then. We want a full report when you get back.”
“But Mrs. Wallace—?”
“Don’t worry about her,” Fanny waves a hand. “We’ll stuff your bunk with pillows and tell her that you were so exhausted that you fell asleep the moment you stumbled into the room.”
I glance longingly at the bunk. I wish I could do just that.
“What are you waiting for?” Fanny asks, tipping her head.
I open my mouth but can’t think of what to say. I can’t explain to her everything warring within me. Making a difference in this era has been far more difficult than I imagined it’d be, and I still don’t know how to convince anyone to listen to me. I couldn’t even convince a bunch of Harvey Girls that I’m a time traveler; how do I expect to convince anyone with real power or authority? Besides, right now, I’m so exhausted that I’m tempted to just forget it all. It’d be so much simpler to go along with all this. I could crawl into bed and do my best to forget the future looming over us, drawing closer every minute. I wish I was back in the 22nd century with Kenzi, ordering Punch-In and planning speeches about how to help children in underdeveloped countries or raising funds for de-extinction research.
“Look,” Fanny says, “if you want to sit here and follow Mrs. Wallace’s rules and serve meals to rich folks for the rest of your life, you’re welcome to it. But if this woman really is offering you another option, you ought to at least hear her out. Women like us don’t tend to get an overabundance of opportunities in this world. Just promise you’ll come back and tell us what she says?”
I nod. She’s right. It’s time to see if this woman really can help.
CHAPTER NINE
I creep through the corridors, the motion of the train causing me to sway back and forth and knock my shoulder in the cool glass of the windows on one side and the wood paneling and sliding doors on the other. Throughout the day, I was too busy to notice how unlike my present-day airtrains these giant, coal-fueled monsters are, but now the differences are so apparent that they make me homesick for the smooth, quiet, and clean-smelling transportation back home.
When I finally arrive at suite 24A, I pause outside, my ear nearly touching the door. It’s late. Will Madeline Barker even be awake? I hesitate, half-wanting to retreat to my own berth and forget about the note. The only things that hold me back are Fanny’s words. She’s right; I can’t sit around and wait for the world to keep spinning around me. Even if I want to, I can’t ignore what I know. I know exactly how things will end up if I don’t do anything. Which means I need to act, and the sooner, the better.
And hopefully, this Madeline Barker can help.
With a grim and decisive nod, I rap on the door.
“Come in! Come in!”
The door slides open to reveal a room that’s twice as wide as the one I’ve been sleeping in, and from the looks of the single bed, this woman doesn’t have to share it with anyone, either. It has a writing desk at the center, and even a window, currently obscured by a lace-edged curtain that wavers back and forth with the rocking of the train.
Madeline Barker stands in the center of it all in an elegant silk dressing gown with an embroidered letter “B” upon it. Her hair’s done up as if she’s getting ready to go to a party rather than to bed, and delicate slippers grace her feet.
“Miss Barker?” I ask.
“It’s Mrs. Barker,” she says, smiling. “Come in, come in. Have a seat. You can call me Madeline.”
She gestures to a seat beside the writing desk, and I sink into it, grateful for an opportunity to rest my feet.
“I’m very glad you’ve come,” Madeline says, perching on the edge of the bed. “I wanted you to know that I believe you.”
“I… Pardon?”
“About where you’re from,” Madeline continues. “I overheard what you tried to tell the governor. It was very brave of you, exposing yourself to ridicule and skepticism like that.”
“I don’t understand.” How is it that this woman believes me so easily when no one else has? “How do you know?”
“You remember I asked you the time this morning,” Madeline says. She reaches over and takes my hand, then points to the watch on my wrist. “This is how I know who you are and that whatever message you’ve brought from—” She places a finger on her lips. “—from where you’re from… that it must be important.”
“It is.”
“Of course it is,” she says, “or you wouldn’t be here. Am I right?”
I nod slowly.
“Now, I’m very sorry about the governor. Some men, you’ll find, are born skeptics. But that’s where I come in. I can help you get your information in front of the correct people—people who will believe you and will be able to do something about it. I’ve worked quite a bit in Washington, D.C., you see, trying to ensure women’s suffrage, and therefore consider it my duty, nay, my honor to help you.” She rises and throws open the curtain covering her closet, searching for something. “Now, if we hurry, we can disembark in Albuquerque. We’ll discuss everything you know about 1914 on the train ride back east.”
With that, she begins to take clothing from the closet, gather up her luggage, and stuff her suitcases with random objects from around the room, leaving me sitting, stunned, at the desk.
“You’re going to help me?” I ask, stunned. “Help me keep the National Guard from killing the miners?”
Madeline tosses a silky gown into her suitcase. “Unfortunately, I don’t know that I’ll be able to help the coal miners in Ludlow. There’s simply not enough time to work my wiles on old John Rockefeller, and goodness knows no one else in the mining industry will change a thing without his say-so.”
“But the miners and their families—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Argent—”
“Cass. Call me Cass.”
“I’m sorry, Cass,” she says. “These things take time. You can’t simply rush in and expect to change history in a day. Am I correct in assuming that you may have other useful knowledge as well, though? Things just as important, if not more so, than those miners?”
I swallow hard. Maybe she’s right. I may not have enough time to stop the Ludlow Massacre, but if she can connect me with the proper people, perhaps there’s a chance of stopping the war.
“Come on, then,” Madeline says. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
Is it? Things are happening so quickly. I’d wanted to take charge, to make things happen, but I feel as if I’m on a runaway train.
I clutch the watch on my wrist. “How do you know all this? Are you a traveler as well?”
Madeline smiles as she tucks her clothing into her suitcase. “Me? Oh, no, dear. I’ve simply encountered one. A few years ago. I was boarding the Titanic—”
“The Titanic?”
“Yes, I imagine you’ve heard of it? At any rate, I was on the gangplank, about to step on board, when one of the women who’d been standing in front of me just—poof!—disappeared.” She stops to press a knee to her suitcase, grunting and pressing her weight into it until it clicks shut.
“What does that have to do with time travel? Maybe she just got lost in the crowd.”
“Getting lost in a crowd is one thing. Vanishing from existence is quite another. I’d have thought I was mad, except then the woman who’d been standing next to the first took something from her handbag—a shining orb, as
black as anything I’d ever seen before. She pressed a button on it and—poof!—she was gone, too. And that second woman, before either of them disappeared, had been checking her wristwatch incessantly—a wristwatch just like yours.”
A wristwatch like mine, and a Wormhole Device just like Dodge’s. “But how did you know she was…?”
“Not from this time? Goodness, after what happened a few days later to the ship, it became obvious. She’d been sent from the future to rescue the first woman. It all fit, especially once I tried to find the watch she’d owned. I put out ads in newspapers, scoured watchmakers’ shops, and no one could point me to the item’s origin. That design, that style… it simply didn’t exist.
“Of course, time travel is hardly a rational explanation,” she says, laughing, “but there were others who responded to my advertisements, who’d seen watches like this as well, and together, we formed an organization of sorts, dedicated to the in-depth investigation of these watches and their wearers, as well as the curious circumstances surrounding them: appearances, disappearances, unexplained events.”
With that, Madeline hands me a badge, engraved with the distinct watch face that matches the item on my wrist. Around the edges are the words, Scire Ignotum.
“To know the unknown,” Madeline says dreamily. “There are those in our organization who believe these watch-bearers are beings from other worlds or sorcerers or simply people who possess metaphysical powers. I, however, have always suspected time travel.” She picks up her suitcase. “And with your testimony, we shall finally put all those other theories to rest.”
I simply stare at her, not knowing how to respond.
She smiles and places an arm on my shoulder. “How very fortunate that I happened to be in the dining car today. Just think, after all these years, to finally meet someone like yourself on a train, of all places. It’s as if fate was looking down upon us.”