by Rysa Walker
“Campbell was under a key then?”
“Yeah. The one you brought back to him?” His eyes are narrowed now, and I finally place why he looks familiar—aside from the whole Thor vibe. The eyes are Simon’s. In fact, if this guy never exercised, never went outdoors, and was shrunk down about a foot . . .
That realization sets my pulse racing, but I fake a smile and raise my eyebrows, like he’s the one saying something stupid. “Well, obviously. I was asking whether he still has it.”
Tate’s eyes remain wary as he shakes his head. “They let him keep the key long enough for a tour of the EC, so he could see the mess for himself. After that, they took it. Said he could go anywhere he wants inside the OC. If he steps outside . . . adios, Campbell. Same for the dog. They don’t exist any more than I do.”
He punches the sand-stuff, and his fist sinks down nearly to the wrist. “God almighty, Pru! This isn’t what I agreed to! You were supposed to restore CHRONOS and fix the mess Saul made, not make it worse.”
“I’m trying! Don’t you think I’m trying?” That line is 100 percent sincere, and it must ring true, because his expression softens.
Unfortunately, that means he pulls me close to him again. “How long for you? Since you went back? You look . . . different. Rounder.”
I take a moment to think about my response. A few years’ distance might help explain any lapses of memory. Also, I’m pretty sure Pru wouldn’t like his last comment.
“Just over two years. And did you just call me fat?”
“No. Rounder is good.” He squeezes my thigh and adds in a voice that is almost a growl, “I like. You were so thin last time I saw you. But, babes, things are . . . different. Wearing that could complicate matters once we’re outside the club.”
“It was all I could find. How long has it been for you?”
I know this is a loaded question. Prudence should know the date she got the keys. But since I don’t know the date, I need to play stupid.
He rolls his eyes. “Um . . . non-time traveler? September 20th to October 14th is still right at three weeks for those who are chronologically grounded. It took me nearly two weeks to figure out a way to get in here. This is the only stable point I could think of that you might check and that might possibly still be active.”
“I have to go back and fix this.”
“No kidding. I know I said before that I’d go crazy if I was stuck here, stuck at a desk. If I couldn’t jump. And I’m still not sure I could take it. But this? I can’t . . . I can’t imagine staying in this place, Pru. It’s infinitely worse than—”
Something rattles in the darkness. Tate squeezes my thigh again and says, “Shh.”
“I don’t hear anything,” I lie, since I’m pretty sure the noise was Kiernan.
“No, there was something. We should get out of here either way. Come on.” He pulls me up and then reaches down to grab his pack and flashlight. “They have sensors at the exits, but security is programmed to keep people from getting in, not out. We should be okay.”
“So how did you get in?”
He hesitates. I think maybe he’s blushing. “Hid in one of the old-style Juvapods no one uses. I can see why. You can barely breathe in there.”
I don’t think that tells me how he got into the building, although maybe it does, since I have no idea what a Juvapod is. But since Prudence might know, I just follow him, wishing I could catch a glimpse of Kiernan before we leave. I don’t know how much he’s heard, and he needs to get out, too, preferably before we set off a sensor.
There’s a movement from the shadows to the right of the row of doors. Tate must see it, too, because he mutters a curse and takes a half step in that direction. Then he changes his mind and reverses course. Scooping me up under his arm, he takes off past the rows of doors into a dark hallway beyond.
“Put me down, Tate!” It’s the second time I’ve had to tell him that in less than five minutes, and I’m beginning to feel like I’m dealing with King Kong. “I can run, you know.”
“Not as fast as I can.”
I open my mouth to argue, but . . . yeah. He’s moving fast—almost unnaturally fast—especially when you consider that he’s lugging an extra hundred and twenty pounds of me.
A glowing red X in a square box comes into view as he rounds the corner. The X just hangs in the darkness, and I have a sudden strong feeling that we shouldn’t continue this way, but that could be because there’s a large red X in front of us. As we get closer, I see that the X is above a doorway, so maybe EXIT signs lost a few letters over the centuries?
The rim around the door starts to glow the same red as the X when we’re a few paces away.
“Damn it!” Tate shoves the door with his shoulder, barely breaking stride as we go through. “Something triggered security already!”
I crane my neck around to see if Kiernan is behind us, but the door slams shut. The building rises up at least ten floors, maybe more, white and immaculate like one of the Cyrist temples. I don’t see a Cyrist symbol, but the place is massive, and we’re too close for me to view the top.
I also don’t see the door open again, and that has me very worried about Kiernan.
The streets are nearly deserted, with no cars, buses, or any other form of transportation. I scan for street signs, but I don’t see any. There’s a park across the street and a statue that looks vaguely familiar. Commodore Something-or-Other. I think that means we’re near McPherson Square, or at least where it used to be.
Two people cross the road a few blocks down. They’re moving quickly, at a smooth, even pace that doesn’t look natural. The only other signs of life are an oversized rat that slips into a drainage pipe and a man huddled in an alley between two buildings—both of which could fit in my present-day DC.
I nearly miss it, given Tate’s need for speed, but as we zip by the guy in the alley, I catch a brief glimpse of his face.
It’s Kiernan. How did he get out before we did when he was behind us?
A few seconds after we pass, Kiernan darts out of the alley, but he can’t keep up. Usain Bolt couldn’t keep up with Tate.
The difference between the building we were just inside and the rest of the neighborhood is striking, even in the dark. The entire area is in shambles, nearly deserted. There are a few newer-looking buildings, or at least buildings that are still intact, scattered around here and there, and a few lit windows about a quarter mile up the hill.
“Can you slow down, please?” My voice is tentative, more like Kate than Prudence, so I add, in a sharper tone, “You’re crushing my frickin’ ribs, Tate! I need to stop and breathe.”
He rounds the next corner and ducks into the recessed doorway of one of the less dilapidated buildings.
“Past curfew.” At least he’s breathing heavy after that sprint. I was beginning to wonder if he’s actually human. “Had to get you out of there. You’ll attract attention, especially in that.”
“Why? I mean, it’s tight, but the women inside that place wore far less. Some of them weren’t wearing anything.”
“Well, yes. But . . . they belong to members. Or they’re hired companions. They’ll be safe if they stay inside.”
“Wait . . . they belong to members?”
“Uh . . . well, not property. Some are family members. Others are registered to them sort of like . . . pets?” He says the last word hesitantly, as if he expects me to explode, but I’m rendered totally speechless.
He shakes his head. “That’s not quite right either, but like I said before, a lot of things are different. I haven’t pieced all of it together, but whatever this was that happened a few years before 2020, it was massive. History now tells us the only reason anyone survived the Great Plague is because the Cyrists issued a warning. Those who listened and believed lived. But I get a feeling that’s not quite how it went down, is it?”
“Not quite. They called it the Culling. Saul—”
“Did you . . .” Tate grabs my shoulders, and his expre
ssion is conflicted. “Tell me you didn’t help them, Pru. Not with something like that.”
“No.” I twist to loosen his grip and look away because I don’t really know the extent to which Prudence helped with the Culling. I can’t imagine Younger Pru, the one that I met in New York, the one that this guy was involved with, knowingly assisting Saul with something that massively evil. But Older Pru?
“That why I’m here, Tate.” He looks a little hurt, so I reach up and run my hand along his neck. “The other reason I’m here.”
“Did you find him?” One hand slides down from my shoulder to rest on my abdomen. “Is he safe?”
I have no idea how to answer that. Is who safe? The only thing I can think to do is shake my head.
“And it’s been two years? That’s just wrong, Pru . . . a babe should have his mother. Maybe when you find him, you can go back, make up the time.”
I’m really glad it’s dark, because I’m pretty sure my cover would be totally blown if Tate could see my face right now.
“You’ll find him, Pru. You will. Is there any news of Patrek?” He says it oddly, almost like pot-wreck, with a slight accent on the second syllable.
“Patrick?” I ask.
“Is he part of this . . . Culling?”
I can tell he’s hoping I’ll tell him no, although I’ve no idea why. But I tell him the truth. “Yes. He’s helping Saul.”
“Then that’s my fault, too.” He looks like he’s going to cry again, but he just presses his lips to my palm, then turns my hand over to trace his finger over the tattoo. “You let them tat you. I liked the other one better.”
No clue what other one he’s talking about, so I just give him a tiny smile and change the subject. “Only you and Campbell remember the other timeline?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “There could be others, but I don’t think so. There were rumors before—when I was CHRONOS—that someone in the administration was under a key. Some people said the president, others said the vice president. But I think they’d have started up the program again if someone in power remembered about CHRONOS, if they knew some historians were behind a plague that wiped out nearly a billion people. I think they’d try and stop it. Don’t you?”
Nearly a billion people.
My first emotion is relief—not even a billion! The models Tilson and Ben mentioned predicted at least triple that number.
That’s followed by the realization that it’s still nearly a billion people. And whatever the number, the changes were radical enough to create this reality, which is a far cry from the future Katherine, Delia, and Abel knew. Grant, too. Would he have wanted to return to this version of his future?
“But maybe . . .” I’m about to say that maybe someone in power is in the process of doing exactly that, at this moment, but I catch myself. It’s one of those odd conundrums that twists my brain into a pretzel. The fact that this plague did happen would seem to suggest that he’s right. No one in a position to reinstate a time travel program knows about Saul’s role in this “Great Plague,” because if they did, they’d have found a way to be sure Saul’s Culling never happened. The newspaper headlines Tilson showed me would never have been written.
But. Here comes the bendy-twisty part. That same logic could be applied to me, since I’m also currently trying to prevent that catastrophe. Does the fact that I’m here in the future, seeing evidence that it happened in the past, mean that I fail?
No, no, no, no. Stop it, Kate.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go on the assumption that it’s just you and Campbell. Do you think he can help us? Will help us?”
“I don’t know. All of the changes sort of . . . undid him. He’s drinking a lot. Last time I was there he went on and on about CHRONOS history and other things . . . other people . . . that used to exist. I think he’s taking some strong mood drugs. Or it might just be how much he’s drinking. Anyway, I had an hour with him that first day, and he was coherent maybe fifteen minutes, total. It wasn’t much better last time. All I managed to find out is that he was inside the club when everything shifted. The next thing he remembers, someone hands him a sealed box, saying it’s from Brother Cyrus, and shows him to his quarters.”
“What was in the box?”
“A blank CHRONOS diary, which I’m guessing was included only for the CHRONOS field. Copies of Saul’s two little books. And a note, which Campbell says was in Saul’s handwriting, on some really old paper. Two words: I win.”
Tate sucks in a breath and then slams his fist into the side of the building. The punch meets only slight resistance before the wall swallows his hand, kind of like the sand-stuff did earlier.
“The books were a joke! We were both nuked half the time when we were writing them. Saul was going to give them to Campbell at the holiday party. Then he moved in with Katherine. I guess she convinced him they were a work of genius.”
I’d love to know what evidence Saul left behind that convinced everyone Katherine was the mastermind who destroyed CHRONOS. I mean, it’s a moot point in this timeline, since CHRONOS never existed, but I’d bet it was at the heart of Prudence’s decision to stay with Saul. Mom said Pru was always the more rebellious twin, always eager to butt heads with Katherine. But even though Mom herself would never have nominated Katherine for Mother of the Year, would she have believed Katherine was evil enough to commit an act of terrorism that killed God knows how many people? I think the evidence would have had to be very, very convincing for her to accept that.
But whatever the evidence was, Pru did believe it. And asking questions at this point seems ill-advised, especially when Tate is already wound up.
“If I could use this damned key, I’d track both of them down and separate their heads from their necks.”
I watch as the dent Tate punched in the wall finishes filling back in. When everything is going to hell around you, it’s kind of comforting to see something repairing itself. To see something humans invented that’s useful rather than destructive.
“I’ll take care of Saul and Katherine, Tate. But first, we have to come up with a plan for getting the CHRONOS keys.”
Tate stares at me blankly. “But . . . we did that. You have the keys. Getting the keys made things worse.”
“Saul has the keys . . . or at least most of them.”
“Then why are you here? Go back to . . . whenever . . . and get them from Saul.”
I was really, really hoping Tate would already understand what Kiernan told me earlier about the keys existing even if the rest of the timeline didn’t. That maybe this type of discussion was part of CHRONOS Agent Training 101. But Katherine’s knowledge on these issues seems pretty sketchy, so there’s no reason to assume the other historians are any more inclined toward perverse temporal logistics. CHRONOS never planned for historians to change timelines, and they even took precautions, faulty though they may have been, to make sure that they couldn’t. Maybe they didn’t want them even thinking about how it might be done and the possible ramifications.
“Saul would kill me before giving them over, Tate.” That’s true, as far as it goes. I’m just leaving out the bit about not knowing when and where the transfer happened. “I need to stop . . . myself from giving the keys to Saul in the first place. As you keep saying, everything changed. CHRONOS never existed. But despite that, you’re still wearing a key, right? So am I. The keys are a permanent fixture. They have their own CHRONOS field, so alterations to the timeline don’t affect them. The existence of the keys is the only constant. Somewhere and when there’s a whole box of unassigned CHRONOS keys—the only link between this reality and the others. When is easy—before Prudence got them.” My mouth goes suddenly dry as I realize what I’ve just said. “That is, before the younger me got them. Where might be tougher. I’m guessing someone—”
I stop in midsentence and resist the urge to thwack myself in the forehead. “They took Campbell’s key, but he’s okay if he stays inside the OC. Do you mean the entire building?”
>
“Yeah . . .”
Connor’s rig in the library takes three keys, and the range extends the CHRONOS field to the rest of the house and most of the yard. That club building takes up a full city block, and it’s at least ten stories high. While it’s entirely possible they’ve found a way to amplify the field far beyond Connor’s twenty-first-century limitations, we do know they have at least one key—the one they took from Campbell.
It’s a start.
“Tate, tell me again how you got into the Objectivist Club. And this time, I need specifics.”
OBJECTIVIST CLUB
WASHINGTON, EC
October 15, 2308, 4:45 a.m.
Kiernan jumps into the stable point as soon as I step aside. He looks annoyed and tired.
“How did you get away from Thor?”
Sure. Last night he calls the nickname stupid, but now that he’s seen the guy in person, he steals it.
“He’s joining me later. Since he can’t use the key, he’ll have to take another route.”
We sit down in the sand-stuff, and I bring him up to speed about Campbell and the fact that this entire building is, based on what Tate told me, under a CHRONOS field. Then I pull up the observation point I set outside the building around daybreak and scan ahead a few hours to show Kiernan the line that stretches around the building. It isn’t moving yet, so apparently the screeners got a late start.
“They’re all day laborers. Tate said there are rarely fewer than two hundred candidates waiting, even though the screeners never choose more than fifty on a weekday, evenly split between servers and companions.”
“Companions?”
“Yeah. Paid escorts. Or—”
His nose wrinkles slightly. “I get the point.”
“Tate’s near the front of the line because he has a blue chip they scan as he comes in the door. The chip means you’re a regular or a special request. Or both.”