by Rysa Walker
“And the train track we’re riding on hits a cement wall in a few days,” I say. “Well, in a few days from my perspective. The Culling changes everything. That’s why these stable points are screwed up. The geographical and chronological coordinates are still the same, but everything else has changed. There may not even be a CHRONOS! Maybe it was never created, maybe there aren’t even any keys to—ugh!” I pound both fists into my thighs, hard, but it doesn’t even begin to vent the frustration.
Kiernan leans forward and grabs my wrists. “I don’t think so, Kate. Unless someone opened them up and gave them an acid bath like the ones Connor had, the keys wouldn’t be affected. They’re a constant. They’re inside a CHRONOS field. Even if everything changes around them, those keys existed in some timeline, so they exist in this one, too.”
He’s right. At least I think he is.
“Okay. But where? And how do we grab the keys before Prudence does, if she got them in some other timeline that doesn’t even exist anymore?”
BOGART, GEORGIA
March 2, 1913, 6:47 a.m.
This is the first time I’ve been awakened by rooster.
I don’t like it.
He yanked me out of a deep, dreamless sleep, and I almost slip back into it, until he starts up again. The creature clearly takes his alarm clock duty far too seriously, and there’s no way to turn him off or press snooze. Even pulling a pillow over my head doesn’t block his racket. No wonder people went to bed early in these days. They knew they’d be jolted wide awake at the crack of dawn.
I vaguely remember moving to the guest room after the third time I drifted off on Kiernan’s sofa. Keeping your eyes open is kind of important when scanning stable points. I was starting to worry that the next time I opened my eyes I’d find I blinked myself into the future.
Everyone is still where they’re supposed to be when I check in via the medallion. I know my constant checking is bordering on obsession, but there’s something comforting about the routine. If I had a stable point for Mom and Katherine, it would be so easy to get stuck in this loop where I circle endlessly, making sure everyone I love is safe in this one block of time.
But that would be crazy.
And speaking of crazy, the glow stars, the ones Kiernan brought here from his room in Boston, are still on the ceiling. Those stars nagged at me when I saw them in his room in Boston. They still bother me, and I finally realize why. The stars shouldn’t exist. Kiernan said her other things vanished. I have to keep the 1905 dress—the one that belonged to her—under a CHRONOS field or it will vanish, too. If Other-Kate put those stars on his ceiling, they should’ve blinked out of existence when she did. Right?
I check the nightstand near the bed for a CHRONOS diary inside, but there isn’t one. While Kiernan does have a diary in the loft and the field might extend that far, I doubt it.
Did Kiernan jump to the closest time and place with a Spencer Gifts and buy more? It’s the only thing that makes sense. If so, it’s sad. In fact, it’s borderline creepy-obsessive, and I’m not comfortable putting Kiernan in that category.
I pull on the jeans, sweater, and socks I discarded before climbing under the quilt last night because the cabin is chilly this morning, and the 2308 costume Kiernan nabbed from Prudence’s closet doesn’t look very warm. It also smells funny . . . a musky, spicy scent he says Pru wore when she was younger.
I’ve mentally tagged the outfit “Seven of Nine.” It’s one of those catsuit things—stretchy, shiny, and grayish-purple. It reminds me of this cyborg character on one of the Star Trek shows Dad used to watch. I don’t think he really liked the show itself, but he definitely paid attention when the catsuit woman was on-screen. Even though I won’t fill it out as impressively as she did, it wins the best jump costume hands down.
I also put the contacts back in, reluctantly, scratching my eyelid in the process. Charlayne swears I’ll get used to the lenses after a while. I can’t understand why anyone would wear these for fun.
It’s much warmer in the main cabin, thanks to a roaring fire. Kiernan’s already up with a cup of coffee, reading something on my tablet.
“Is there more of that?” I ask.
“Of course. You’re here, so I knew to make a full pot.” He pushes his chair back and goes to the kitchen. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes. I’m thinking Kentucky Fried Rooster.”
There’s another chorus of cock-a-doodle-doo just as I finish speaking, and he laughs. “Henry’s just doing his job, love.”
Kiernan seems almost cheerful, in stark contrast to last night. This may be the first time he’s called me love since we were with Abel and Delia in Martha’s cellar. I have mixed feelings about that part, but if it means he’s not snapping and muttering constantly, I’ll consider it a fair trade.
He comes back into the room with a full mug and a plate of what looks and smells like banana bread. “Did you sleep well?”
“Better than I’d have thought, but I’m still exhausted. In fact, if you want to track down Henry and pop a bag over his head, I’ll go back for five or six hours more.”
“I could do that, but you’d just lie there and worry about everything that needs doing, so you might as well get back to it.” Kiernan speaks as though this is a given fact, which it probably is. And that irks me, because it’s one of those things he shouldn’t know but still does.
And that’s probably why I decide to ask the question that’s been bugging me since I was in his apartment in Boston, even though I’m fairly certain it’s going to wreck his pleasant mood.
“So . . . the stars on the ceiling in the guest room. You said they belonged to your Kate. But they couldn’t, could they? The dress . . . you said it would’ve disappeared if you left it at Jess’s store without the CHRONOS field from your grandfather’s diary. Why would those stars be any different?”
I was right. Kiernan’s eyes take on the guarded look that’s pretty much the norm these days and he looks away. I instantly regret pushing the point, but he’s hiding something, and I can’t help thinking those silly stars are part of it.
He goes to the fireplace and pokes it vigorously a few times, even though it’s blazing quite nicely and doesn’t need the attention. Then he walks over to the couch, leans his head back, and closes his eyes.
I think he’s ignoring me, but just as I’m opening my mouth to repeat the question, he sighs and starts talking.
“When my Kate disappeared, the stars went with her.” The lilt in his voice is gone, and he sounds tired. “Some time later, I came back to the apartment, and the stars were back. They weren’t stuck on in quite the same spots, and I think this batch may be from another company because the color seems more yellow this time. At first I thought it was one of Pru’s jokes. Then I thought it was you . . . this you. That you made a jump back and put those stars in our sky as a sign. To tell me I shouldn’t give up. So I brought them along when I moved. Now . . .” He shrugs, still avoiding my gaze. “I don’t have an answer to give you, Kate. If they bother you, take ’em down.”
I don’t have an answer to give you, Kate.
I think his wording is intentional. Not I don’t have an answer, because I’m pretty sure that would be an outright lie. And whatever else is going on with him, Kiernan still doesn’t like lying to me.
“No,” I say. “I just wondered. Seemed odd.”
And it does seem odd, but Kiernan’s closed expression makes it crystal clear I won’t get anything else out of him. So I pick up the key and start scanning stable points again.
Like the old folks’ apartment yesterday, the first few visual thumbnails seem similar enough in color and lighting that I believe they’re set in a single room, even though the angle varies a bit. I select one that appears to be looking down on a party from a balcony. The room looks like it could be part of a museum. It’s very posh, with dark paneling and upholstered chairs that would probably seem antique even to Kiernan. An immense fireplace takes up much of one wall, but peo
ple stand too close to it for me to believe it’s an actual fire. More likely a video screen. Framed portraits hang above the mantel. The one closest to me is a woman with short gray hair. There’s an inscription above the pictures, but the room isn’t well lit enough for me to make it out.
The crowd is maybe three-quarters male. Some wear suits a bit like tuxedos—they appear to be servers. Two men are in attire that looks Elizabethan, and several other historical eras are represented. This is either CHRONOS or a costume party.
I’m leaning toward the latter. Directly in front of the stable point is a woman whose dress scoops low in the back to highlight her assets, by which I mean not only her shapely behind, but also her wings.
They don’t look large enough to be functional—maybe two feet long—so I’m thinking costume. But they seem to rise straight out from the skin of her shoulder blades, and she uses them as she talks to emphasize her points, much the way I use my hands. The wings are delicate, gossamer-looking confections of white and seafoam green, with feathers tipped in a gold a few shades lighter than her dress.
The winged woman is by far the most stunning creature in the room, but the man at the far end of the table also draws my eye. While he isn’t obese, he’s definitely well cushioned, in stark contrast with every other person in the room. They all seem extraordinarily fit . . . almost too fit. The large guy appears isolated from the others. They’re clustered around him, but talking to each other. It’s almost like he’s on display.
The man’s eyes dart around nervously. A dog, also well cushioned and clearly past its prime, sleeps near his feet. The man keeps one hand on the animal, like he needs constant reassurance that his pet—a sad-looking parody of the lean, mean Dobies at the Sixteenth Street Temple—hasn’t wandered away.
Campbell’s dog . . . that gassy old Doberman named Cyrus.
If that’s Campbell, and I’m pretty sure it is, this must be the Objectivist Club. I don’t believe it’s inside CHRONOS headquarters, from what Katherine and Grant said. But who knows if there even is a CHRONOS anymore? It’s a reasonably safe location where I could jump in. Better than arriving by rocket belt.
I grab Kiernan’s notepad and jot that location down as one to transfer to his key, then move to the next stable point. The geographic coordinates are so close to the last one that it might be the same building. But it’s the date stamp that catches my eye after I click it: 10022308_2200. That’s near enough to the estimated date for Pru’s jump to CHRONOS HQ that I decide to study this one closely.
A gargantuan pool takes up the center of the room, with several smaller pools scattered about at one end. People wander in and out of the area during the day, swimming and soaking up the sun. At some point, most of them enter one of the small white doors lined in a row along the far wall.
Clothing appears optional, more for decoration than decorum. And the groupings are . . . odd. I’ve yet to see a woman stroll in without a man, although several groups of men have wandered in without women.
At first I think the place is outside, because it’s sunlit part of the day and there’s a sky when I pivot upward. But as I skim through several days, the patterns seem too regular to be natural. Each day is aggressively bright and sunny, with just a few wispy clouds. The sky fades gradually beginning at 5 p.m. with a uniformly spectacular sunset promptly at 5:45. There’s a full moon every night, and regardless of the time of day, the wall of doors at the back remains fully lit until midnight. Then everything shuts down until six the next morning. The moon, the stars, and even the little reflecting lights along the edge of the pool go out.
When I hit the midnight blackout period after three iterations of this loop, I decide to zip through more quickly, thinking it may be time to move on to something new. But then I notice an odd flicker of white in the darkness.
It looks like a flashlight. Whoever’s holding it turns left, walking around the pool toward the stable point I’m viewing. As the person gets closer, I pick up a second source of light, fainter, but very clearly the vivid blue of a CHRONOS key.
After a moment, the man—he’s definitely a man, and a rather large one, too—comes closer to the stable point. He tosses a small bag onto the ground and puts the flashlight down beside it with the beam pointing upward. He’s tall and very muscular, in his early to midtwenties, with long hair that’s either blond or light brown, and a slightly darker beard.
The guy turns and stares directly at the stable point. And even though he’s hundreds of years into the future, I know exactly what that expression means.
I’m waiting. Where the hell are you?
∞17∞
SOMEWHERE NEAR WASHINGTON, DC
October 14, 2308, 10:02 p.m.
He looks like Thor.
Kiernan says that’s just projection on my part, because this must be Tate Poulsen, who was a Viking historian, and Thor is what comes to mind when I think of Vikings.
But Kiernan has never seen the movies. I think it’s much more likely that whichever CHRONOS scientist landed the task of tweaking Tate Poulsen’s genetic makeup had seen those movies and decided to create this guy as an homage.
Because he looks like Thor. Tangled blond hair, mustache, beard. Give him a hammer and a red cape and he’d be a decent movie double . . . except he might be a little too large.
One thing Kiernan and I did agree on is that Thor doesn’t look happy. He looks confused. Frazzled. There may even be some crazy in the mix.
So I’m very glad Kiernan is hiding in the shadows as backup. He jumped in first—my new, nonnegotiable rule for any trips we take—and he’ll stay in the background unless I’m in clear danger.
Which could be instantly, judging from Tate’s clenched fists and that twitchy little vein near his temple.
I wait until he steps away from the stable point, then take a deep breath and blink in.
He grabs my shoulders before I can get my bearings and lifts me several inches off the ground.
“What in God’s name have you done, Pru?” His voice is deep, but he keeps the volume low, barely above a hiss.
I stretch my legs, trying to at least touch my toes to the floor, and resist the urge to fight back. I don’t think Prudence would fight him.
On the other hand, I don’t think she’d care for being manhandled any more than I do. And if I don’t get control of the situation pretty quickly, Kiernan will probably step in.
“Put me down, Tate! You’re hurting me.”
He does as I ask, and I notice the floor isn’t very floorlike. My boots sink into it, almost like beach sand. But when I take a step, my footprints fill in almost instantly.
I don’t know enough to take the lead in this little tango. The odds of me making a mistake increase each time I open my mouth, so I wait, hoping Tate will speak first.
He doesn’t. His eyes are very busy, however. They move down my body and then back up in a way that makes me very uncomfortable. Even though there’s barely an inch of flesh exposed below my collarbone, this suit leaves little to the imagination. And his eyes are familiar—I don’t know why, but it’s not a pleasant familiarity.
When his gaze arrives back at my face, he grabs me again, very differently this time. His left hand swallows the back of my head, his fingers twisting into my hair. His right hand pulls me from behind and scoops me up against his body.
It takes every bit of control I possess not to panic and shove him away. I try to channel Prudence, something I would normally avoid at all costs.
Pru wouldn’t freak out. She wouldn’t. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’d kiss him back.
So that’s what I do, trying to pretend this is Trey. A very large Trey. Who has a beard. Who smells like he hasn’t bathed recently.
And who is . . . crying?
Yeah. Definitely crying.
He sinks downward, taking me with him. I brace myself against the floor with my hand, and it is like beach sand, only . . . not granular. It’s solid, slightly warm. A little like the memory-foam t
hing that Dad put on the pull-out sofa at his place, only I suspect this stuff would actually have kept me from feeling that stupid bar in the middle.
Tate’s shoulders stop shaking after a moment, and he leans back on one elbow, the other arm still clutching me to his body.
“I thought you’d come back before . . . when it all went crazy. I looked for you everywhere. This was my last shot, my last . . .”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, just burrows his face into my neck, breathing deeply. I tense automatically, and it’s almost like the tension flows from my body to his.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“You’re holding me too tight. I can’t breathe.”
Tate loosens his hold, but he’s still looking at me strangely. I force myself to kiss him and then say, “My key was swiped. I couldn’t get back, Tate. What happened?”
“Maybe you should tell me what happened? I got out of the building and headed back to my place to wait. Like we agreed. Only I’m in the hallway when I suddenly feel like I’m going to heave my guts out. Everything . . . changed around me.” He slumps back into the fake sand, his hand remaining possessively on my thigh. “I go to my door, but I can’t get in. Some ancient hag called building security. I had to dismember the guard to avoid winding up in a holding center, and the damn thing still sent out an alert before I crushed its comm unit.”
I let out the breath I sucked in when he said dismember the guard, very relieved to hear that the guard is an it. Because that means not human . . . right?
“That old couple has lived there since before I was born. Excuse me, since before I should have been born, because from everything I can tell, I wasn’t. My credits don’t exist, CHRONOS still doesn’t exist, but this time it’s not that they shut it down, Pru. It never existed at all. If I have parents, I can’t find them. No one knows who I am . . . except for Campbell, of course, but he’s completely flaked.”