by Rysa Walker
“Max, I’m not sure that any of us connected to CHRONOS exist outside a key right now, so you might . . .” I don’t finish the sentence. It’s hard to muster up anything close to a full serving of sympathy if Max did pull her key, when she evidently doesn’t care how many people die by Cyrist hands. Still, it feels a little wrong to root for her extinction. The Cyrists managed to convince Kiernan that their Way was the only Way for a while. And Kiernan had the benefit of knowing people outside the Cyrist circle, people who questioned those beliefs and made him question them.
Did Eve have anyone like that in her life? Or has it been lived entirely inside a Cyrist bubble?
I catch a glimpse of Charlayne’s face as I look away. She’s sitting on the bed, weapons on one side, Ben on the other. Her eyes seem troubled, and I suspect she’s thinking the same thing I am.
Max is asking me something, and I’ve missed the first part. “Sorry. Can you repeat that?”
“The keys? I take it you didn’t get them, since there are clearly no pockets on that thing you’re wearing.”
“No. I had a minor wardrobe malfunction.” I fork my fingers, pointing to my eyes. “Do we have a backup pair of lenses, Charlayne?”
She nods, and while she’s searching for her handbag, I bring my little corner of the Fifth Column up to speed on the changes I witnessed in the future and the fact that most of our research is essentially worthless.
“I know Julia . . . and I guess Delia and Abel, too . . . spent a lot of time on the file, but I don’t think it was even accurate before this last shift. Kiernan noted several changes that were in place as early as 2150, and—”
Max gives me a look that suggests he thinks I’m too dumb for words. “And how do you know he’s not bullshitting you, Kate?”
“Because I’ve just been there! What is it with you? The changes I saw go well beyond what Kiernan told me, and there are actually a few things that match up with his descriptions. The biggest problem now is—”
I stop in midsentence and look at Eve. “You know, I’m not saying anything more with her here. This is insane. What if she does happen to escape and she doesn’t vanish? It would be beyond stupid to just dish up everything I’ve learned on a platter. That never goes well when the villain does it in the movies, and even though we’re the good guys here, I can picture so many ways it could blow up in our faces.”
Max shrugs and then loops the arm that was resting on Eve’s shoulders around her neck, lifting her onto her tiptoes as he squeezes the pressure points.
I know this move. I used it—twice—on Detective Beebe back in Georgia. But it’s still disturbing to watch. Eve flails briefly, digging her nails into Max’s arm, and then goes limp.
Max holds her there about ten seconds and then slides her down to the floor. “Talk fast.”
“Fine. CHRONOS wasn’t just disbanded in this timeline. It never existed. But I think we can still get the keys if I go back to the date before Pru takes them. They should still be somewhere.”
I pull in a deep breath, preparing to launch into the reasons that Kiernan spelled out as to why the keys would still exist even if CHRONOS didn’t in this timeline. But Tilson is already nodding.
“That’s true. They should still exist.”
I could hug him, because I wasn’t looking forward to explaining that. Make it a group hug, because now Ben is nodding, too.
“Just a matter of figuring out where. They have their own CHRONOS field, so they should be . . . where they would have been . . . if there had been a CHRONOS in that timeline. Unless someone moved them.”
Max, Trey, and Charlayne all look a little confused, but Eve is stirring, so they’ll have to piece it together on their own.
Charlayne gives me the spare contacts, and I move over to the mirror inside the bathroom. Thankfully, the process of sticking these stupid things in my eyes gets a little easier each time.
Trey comes up and rests his hands on my shoulders, pulling the door closed behind him. When I catch his eyes in the reflection, he gives me a sad look. “I like the green better.”
“Me, too.” I’d much rather have my dad’s eyes looking back from the mirror than eyes that are almost but not quite the same as Pru’s. I give Trey’s hands a squeeze and turn around to face him. “Can you call Dad and let him know I’m all right? Bring him up to speed on Mom, too, okay? I’m glad he’s back from Delaware, but he’s super stressed about all of this, and when I talk to him, his nervousness kind of . . . I don’t know . . . seeps into my head, too.”
“Done,” he says, tipping my face upward for a kiss. “Is everything else okay there . . . in the future?”
I shrug. “Okay-ish. This Morgen Campbell guy figured out that I’m not Prudence. He didn’t mention it to the Viking historian, the one Pru was involved with, so I think I’m safe. I’m about to meet someone named Saul Rand . . . except it’s not really him, just who he would have been if the timeline hadn’t changed. Kiernan thinks this Pseudo-Saul is our best shot for finding the keys.”
“How about I nod and pretend I understand everything you just said? But, to be clear, it sounds a lot like one of those ‘the road so far’ recaps when I’ve missed a few episodes.”
“Believe me, I know.”
“You look tired. How long since you’ve slept?”
“Not that long. The jumps just . . . I think they wear me out a little faster when they’re really long distance. I haven’t paid much attention to it before, but these jumps are a bit farther out than usual.”
“Be careful, okay? And hurry back.” Trey’s trying really hard to be nonchalant, probably because I’ve just told him that Dad being worried makes it tougher on me. But I can tell from his eyes that he is worried.
When we step back into the main room, I look over at Charlayne. “I’m back in eight minutes—at five thirty—so weapons down, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am!” She gives me a sassy salute and a grin that pulls up a memory of the two of us in my room at the townhouse, Charlayne ducking as I tossed a pillow at her for teasing me about a guy in gym class. For some reason, that memory has me close to tears. Trey is right. I’m tired. I need to wrap this up soon so I can get some rest.
I give Trey’s hand a squeeze and start to pull up the stable point in the OC recreation area at 2 a.m. so I can fill Kiernan in on my progress. Before I can lock in and blink, Max yells, “Hey! You said you’d give me the coordinates.”
“You’re attached at the hip with Eve Conwell right now. There’s no way I’m transferring these coordinates to your key.”
He starts to fume, so I look around the room. “Does anyone here disagree with me on that?”
Everyone looks a little uncomfortably in Max’s direction, and Tilson says, “No. I think we all agree it was a lapse in judgment, Max. And . . .” His voice softens a bit, like he’s about to deliver a blow he’d rather avoid. “From everything Julia told me, I doubt you could handle a three-century jump. She was convinced you were gone a lot longer than you would admit when you made that jump to 2072 last year. That you couldn’t get back at first.”
Max’s eyes flash, and I’m pretty sure things are about to get nasty, but Charlayne clears her throat.
“You’re all missing the key reason that Max can’t make this sort of jump. With Julia gone, he’s needed here. Like Ben was saying earlier, you have to make sure the Fifth Column is ready to roll when the time comes. No one else can do that. We simply can’t take a risk . . . any risk at all, even if it’s only a tiny one . . . that you’ll get stuck there.”
I’m impressed. That’s a pretty stellar bit of diplomacy. Charlayne just gave Max a way to save face and still look like he’s in control.
But Max isn’t having any of it.
“Duct tape.” He reaches his hand toward Charlayne. “I know you’ve got some in that bag somewhere, so pull it out. I’ll secure Eve in the other room . . . with the key. One of you guys can keep watch if you don’t think I’m capable of securing her to a damn chair. But I have to
—”
He looks around at the others as he talks, his eyes making it back to me just as I blink out.
Sorry, Max.
∞19∞
OBJECTIVIST CLUB
WASHINGTON, EC
October 15, 2308, 11:12 a.m.
If someone told me an hour ago I’d ever be glad Morgen Campbell and I occupied the same room, I’d have called that person a dirty rotten liar. Campbell may, however, be the only reason I’m still in one piece, or at the very least still in 2308. I’m not sure whether he told Tate or Tate found the contact lens on his own. All I know is that it was on the end of the finger Tate was shoving in my face when I came back into the living room dressed in my new custom toga. Thor most definitely lost his cool when he realized he’d been tricked, and much like his colleague the Hulk, you wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.
On the other hand, I could get used to “clothes shopping” in the twenty-fourth century. Campbell’s closet is almost entirely bare, but as soon as I stepped in, the closet lights surged a few times and I heard a brief humming noise, like I was being scanned. Then a voice—thankfully not the Alisa voice, but a male with a slight British accent—asked what I’d like to wear today. I requested a Greek toga costume, and a holographic menu popped up inside the niche showing several variants. After I selected one, I heard another hum, and a few seconds later, a toga dropped onto the shelf. The fabric feels a little unusual, and there’s a bit less coverage than I’d like, but the fit is perfect.
So, with my contact lenses now in place and my catsuit swapped out for this shiny new toga, I wait for the arrival of Pseudo-Saul. The message that Campbell sent was vague, simply saying he needed to speak with him, privately and in person, as soon as possible. He didn’t mention me. But I already know Alisa didn’t even wait until the Rands reached the Transpod to spread her juicy bit of gossip. In my brief meeting with Kiernan before jumping back in, he said a message popped up at the Rand table shortly after he located the dining room. He wasn’t close enough to tell what the message was or even to get a clear look at them, but both men seemed a little stunned and left immediately afterward.
Tate, still fuming, is parked on the floor next to the dog. I’m okay with the snub. It’s a big improvement on murderous rage, and I don’t blame him for being furious. I lied to him. Tricked him. It didn’t help that Campbell not only realized it before he did, but gloated about it.
I think the reason for his mood goes deeper, however. There were several times last night and earlier today when I was sure my cover was blown. Each time, I saw the question in his eyes, and each time, he pushed it resolutely away. I think part of him already knew. He just really, really wanted to believe Pru made it back. That he wasn’t alone.
“Have a drink, Poulsen, and stop pouting,” Campbell says. “The one advantage of this cage is a well-stocked bar.”
Unlike Tate, Campbell is delighted that I’m not Prudence. And I don’t know whether it’s the green stuff he’s drinking or the fact he’s proved himself oh-so-smart by outing me, but the man’s mood has turned a complete one-eighty. The possibility that we might be able to undo this and that Saul might not win after all has him on the verge of a happy dance.
The area between the two couches shimmers slightly, and a man appears. He looks first at Campbell, then at me. His features are finely—no, unnaturally—chiseled, like his face was carved from stone. Campbell was right. Aside from the hair and the eyes, which are similar, this man doesn’t look like the Saul I saw at the Expo or at Six Bridges.
He does, however, very closely resemble another Saul I’ve seen—the one in the stained glass windows at the Sixteenth Street Temple. He’s even wearing the same robe. There’s a CHRONOS medallion around his neck, too, but it’s a replica, a dull bronze disk against the white fabric of his garment. The Pseudo-Saul nickname is dead-on. He looks manufactured, almost like a store mannequin.
I glance down at the man’s feet and see a slight flicker where they should be touching the ground.
Campbell snorts. “Too lazy to come in person, Rand? We’re on the same damned floor!”
“It’s not safe,” he says, turning to face me. “Sister Prudence, it is a great honor to meet you. If I had only myself to consider, I would be there in person. But my grandfather is old and prone to infections, and the Alisa says you carry faint traces of the Great Plague.”
Tate and Campbell both look alarmed. I’m startled, too, until I remember the lotus tattoo on the back of my hand. The system probably picked up something from my recent immunization.
“Why are you here, Sister Prudence?”
I watch his face for a moment, trying to pick up clues, but it’s hard to read expressions when his face is so unusual. His eyes are the only feature that look genuine. They seem curious and maybe a little frightened, although I guess that could be his concern about the plague. There’s also a hint of awe, like this is a meeting he never expected.
Just toss the dice, Kate. You’ll never know until you try.
I suck in a deep breath, keeping one hand on my key as I speak. If my next statement is wrong, I’ll need to make a quick exit, and Kiernan and I will just jump back to some point before September 20th and start searching for a needle in a haystack.
But if it’s right . . .
“I’m here to express my gratitude, and that of Brother Cyrus, for your family’s role in protecting the keys over the past century. We’d like to prepare a commemorative plaque to mark the spot where the keys resided, so future generations can appreciate the sacrifice and devotion of the Rand family.”
His answering smile is wide and innocent, an almost childlike expression that I can’t imagine on the face of the real Saul Rand. “Thank you! My grandfather will be—” The smile fades a bit. “You mean here in the club, correct? Maybe in the main hall, near the portraits?”
“Well, no. Brother Cyrus had hoped to have the memorial in the exact location.”
Pseudo-Saul nods, a little uncertain, and then smiles again. “If that’s the wish of Brother Cyrus, then my grandfather will be happy to relocate. We both will. That way, you’ll have the entire sector for the memorial.”
Bingo.
I glance at Campbell, who’s grinning like a toy monkey. Tate still isn’t looking at me.
“Oh, no! I’m sure Brother Cyrus wouldn’t want to inconvenience your family in that way. You’ve already done so much. The main hall will work just as well.”
Pseudo-Saul protests that it’s really no trouble, and we go back and forth for a few rounds. I’m tempted to just blink out with him standing there. I don’t have anything more to say to Campbell, but I do feel I owe Tate . . . well, if not an apology, then something.
“No,” I say firmly. “I’ve decided the main hall would be better anyway, since it’s on a lower floor. I’ll double check with Brother Cyrus and get back with you soon to finalize plans. Go forth . . . in The Way.”
He gives me a puzzled smile and a little bow and then vanishes.
“Impressive! That was a clever strategy.” Campbell seems to expect me to bask in his words of approval, but I ignore him. He gives an offended grunt and heaves himself off the sofa, empty glass in hand.
Cyrus opens one eye and gives a menacing growl as I approach. I ignore him, too, and crouch down to Tate’s eye level.
“Pru wanted to return, Tate.”
He’s silent for a moment, and then he asks, “She’s still alive, then? In your time?”
“Yes. But . . . she’s crossed her own timeline on so many occasions that I don’t think she’s the person you knew. It took a rather nasty toll.”
I decide not to add that she was nearly twenty years his senior when I saw her in London, because age is kind of relative with a CHRONOS key. The girl I saw in New York was younger than he is now. I wish I could imagine some scenario where that girl could jump back here and the two of them could find a bit of happiness, even if there’s no CHRONOS in whatever final reality we end up with. But I c
an’t even begin to imagine the ripple effects from that course of action.
“Do you know if she found the child?”
“I didn’t even know she was looking for a child, Tate. The baby was . . . yours?”
“Yeah. She . . .” He doesn’t finish the thought, just shakes his head slowly. “Is she with her sister? Deborah?”
I go with another partial truth. “She was the last time I saw her.”
He smiles, but his eyes are sad. “Part of me knew you weren’t her from the beginning. She’s a better kisser.”
I laugh, and he says, “Promise me that you’ll give your aunt a message. Tell her I’m sorry. I don’t blame her—for this mess or about the baby. And . . . tell her I wish I could make her another mix tape.”
“I promise, even though I have absolutely no idea what that last part means.”
“You don’t need to,” he says, getting to his feet. “If the girl I knew is still in there somewhere, she’ll know what it means. That’s all that matters.”
He calls out, “Later, Campbell!” as we leave, and then adds, in a softer voice, “Except I’d see you in hell first.” I suspect he could have said it at full volume, because Campbell doesn’t respond. I wonder if he’s already hooked back up to whatever drug he was on earlier.
When we reach the small door in the hallway where we first saw the glow from the CHRONOS field, Tate presses his hand to the wall. We wait for a moment, but nothing happens. He tries again, and then I try, thinking maybe that it will open for my magical Rand DNA.
“So what now?” I say, but he’s already stepping back. He launches a hard sideways kick at the area on the wall where we pressed our hands. It hums, and there are a couple of short clicks, but it doesn’t open until Tate hooks his fingers under the bottom and pulls upward.
There, in the middle of a device far smaller and simpler than Connor’s gizmo in Katherine’s library, is one lone CHRONOS key. I reach for it, but Tate stops me.
“That could set off alarms, so you need to be ready to go as soon as you grab it.” He pulls the long silver chain out of the ridiculous gold muscle shirt he’s wearing and hands me his medallion. I hadn’t even thought about asking for his key, even though I know we can’t afford to leave any loose ends. I’d blame the lapse on exhaustion, but it’s also because I don’t want to think about the implications of what he’s doing. It’s not as bloody as the women slashing their throats at Estero, but I think there’s a very good chance it’s equally fatal.