by Rysa Walker
Several minutes pass, and I realize the mood has changed. Trey looks really nervous, and then he turns toward Max, who must have said something to piss him off.
This is new.
I should have jumped in by now.
Trey storms over like he’s going to hit Max, but then I see it’s Eve who made him angry. The others try to calm him down, including Max, but they look uneasy, too. Eve is the only one who’s calm, staring at the stable point with a satisfied little grin that looks out of place on the face of someone sporting a duct-tape bracelet.
I don’t want to look at the time stamp on my display, but I do. It’s almost 5:31.
Nearly a full minute after I was supposed to return.
It’s just one minute, except . . . you can’t be late with a CHRONOS key. I could jump in at exactly 5:30 a year from now if I needed that long to recover from temporal jet lag.
So if I’m late returning, it means something’s changed. It means I won’t be returning. At all. That’s why Trey looks like someone has punched him in the gut. That’s why Eve is smiling.
Disregarding Kiernan’s earlier warning, I try to blink in again. No luck. I feel the writhing snakes of a panic attack working their way through my body, so I focus on taking slow, even breaths. I need to stop looking at the stupid key and relax if I’m going to get to the point where I can jump back.
Except you’re late, and being late means you don’t make it back.
Why am I not surprised that the little voice in my head sounds just like Eve?
I pound my fists against my thighs in frustration because I can’t think of a single option other than waiting here in this hot, sticky coffin until I can jump out—and the evidence in front of me says sitting and waiting isn’t going to cut it.
Acting solely on impulse, I shove my hand into the wall next to me.
“Welcome, guest! I’m Alisa. Please survey the treatment menu while I pull your account information.”
“Prudence K. Rand. Guest member. Account Rand02.” Hopefully there will be less of a footprint on their computer system if I just give her the information.
There’s a very brief pause before Alisa chirps, “DNA confirmed. Since this is your first visit to the OC, you may not be aware that clients are asked to refrain from bringing in outside food or beverage.”
I’m not sure what she means until I glance down at the mostly empty bottle of water.
“Sorry,” I say, gulping the last bit. “Where’s the trash?”
“Pardon?”
“Where can I discard it?”
The shelf to the right flashes. I put the bottle on the shelf and it vanishes.
“Please disrobe and be seated.”
I ignore her and pull up the exterior of the pod on my key. It’s late morning and the place is crowded. If I tell Alisa to cancel and step out of the pod, I’ll be seen, and the toga isn’t exactly inconspicuous. I’d be less likely to be tagged as Sister Prudence if I follow Alisa’s advice and disrobe, but that option isn’t very appealing.
The chair, however—just a body-shaped indentation in the pod wall—does look appealing. So I sit.
“Some treatments cannot be given if you remain clothed. Please be assured that this is a private session.”
I ignore her, trying to think what to do. She waits for a moment, but then dives into the same routine she did last time. “Do you need help reading the menu?”
“No. I just don’t know what I need.”
“Scanning.”
I gasp as the material of the chair morphs around my body and the entire room flickers slightly, like Campbell’s replicator did when taking my measurements. I panic and start to struggle, but my body says my brain is overreacting. It’s like being wrapped in a soft, warm towel. Oh, yes. I could definitely sleep here.
There’s a beep, followed by a male voice I haven’t heard before. “Increased cortisol, epinephrine, and dopamine levels. Lowered blood glucose. Heart rate outside normal range for age and weight. Hyperhidrosis. Hypercalcemia. Dehydration. Recommendation: Stress tonic, followed by bed rest.”
I start to say cancel, but then I reconsider. “Bed rest isn’t possible. I have to stay alert.”
“Very well. Combination stress and focus tonic.”
“Can you tell me what’s in it?”
The voice reels off a list of ingredients, starting with cortisol receptor something, premium neurotropic or maybe neo-tropic, a whole list of vitamins and minerals, and then concludes with a question. “Would you prefer a fruit or vegetable juice base?”
Okay, I don’t recognize most of those ingredients. But I’ve eaten Twinkies and hot dogs. I don’t recognize most of the ingredients in those, either. Is it all that different from a smoothie with those vitamin boosts? Dozens of people go in and out of these pods all day—well, not this model, but the shiny new ones at the other end. They seem perfectly okay.
“Fruit juice.”
There’s another flicker, and the cushiony material slides away from my body. A few seconds later, a tall, frosted glass appears on the shelf beside me. It’s cold and tastes a bit like mango and reminds me that I haven’t eaten in forever.
I slurp to the bottom, then push the glass back onto the shelf, where it disappears.
“Would you like another treatment?” It’s Alisa again.
What I really want is another one of those mystery smoothies and a long nap in that blanket chair. “I’m thinking. Let me look at the menu for a moment. Oh . . . how long before that tonic takes effect?”
“Five to ten minutes.”
I scan the list of services, wondering how long “skin resurfacing” takes and whether it hurts.
“Please make your selection. Other clients are waiting.”
“I’m done. No other treatment.”
“Thank you for visiting the OC, Pru—” The door starts to slide open but halts just as Alisa stops speaking. Then it starts going back down.
I shove upward on the door, but it doesn’t budge.
“Door must remain locked until treatment cycle is complete.”
“No. Other. Treatment.” I pull upward on the door again. “Cancel treatment!”
No response. I pull out my CHRONOS key and lock in the stable point in Boston. I blink, but I know before I open my eyes that I’m still in the Juvapod, because Alisa is speaking again.
“Please wait. A security team is on its way.”
“A security team? Why?”
“You are wanted for questioning in an incident on level ten. Estimated waiting time is less than thirty seconds.”
Level 10.
“What time is it, Alisa?”
“The current time is nine forty-six.”
Pseudo-Saul. The keys.
A few too many discrepancies from the game plan they’d been given by Brother Cyrus, I guess. So they alerted security, who will find me here in this hot and sticky gift box.
Alisa’s voice chirps throughout the building. “We have a blue level security alert in the recreation center. All clients exit immediately through the front entrance. All clients exit immediately through the front entrance.”
I pull up the outside of the pod on the key. The Juvapod doors slide open and about a dozen disoriented semiclothed bodies stumble out and rush toward the exit at the left. Most of the people who were lounging in the fake sun scurry out of the recreation area, although a few brave souls hang near the door so they can rubberneck. The sole exception is a swimmer in the pool—the same one I saw yesterday—who’s calmly swimming laps. He seems oblivious to the chaos above water. The earbuds or whatever they use in the twenty-fourth century must be really effective.
Two dark metallic-looking . . . things . . . roll around the corner at the far end of Juvapod Row. They’re about four feet high, and the bodies look a bit like the robot in this movie I watched with Dad—can’t remember the name, but the words “Number Five is alive” flash through my head. These guys don’t look as friendly, however.
&nbs
p; In their wake is a woman about the same build as my former karate instructor—short, square, and solid. She doesn’t appear to be armed. I’m less certain about her metal companions.
Tate said something about dismembering a security bot. I have no idea how he did it, although my best guess is sheer brute strength. Of course, he was facing just one.
Surprise is my only hope, and the odds will be much more in my favor if it’s the woman in front when the door opens. I skip ahead a few seconds, and I’m relieved to see her push forward as they draw closer to the door. I move into a fighting stance and wait.
When the door is halfway open, I pull my knee up and in, then thrust a side kick into the woman’s body. I was aiming for her stomach, but the pod is a few inches above ground level, and my heel connects with her sternum. She stumbles back into the first of the security bots, and they both land on the floor a few feet away from me.
It’s a gentle landing, thanks to the squishy sand-stuff, and she’s already pushing herself up as I turn to face the other bot. The woman hits a button on the vest she’s wearing and dives into one of the open Juvapods for cover.
The second bot is indeed armed. Not with a gun, at least I don’t think it’s a gun. More like some sort of stun weapon. The inside of the pod sizzles when it’s hit, about an inch from where I was standing a second earlier.
It’s raising one of its appendages to fire again when a volley of gunfire sounds off to my right. One of those shots connects, and the security bot’s head flies off, splashing into the pool a few lanes away from the oblivious swimmer.
I steal a glance down the hallway to my right, where a large masked gunman is crouching in the shadows. I can’t see his face from this angle, but a CHRONOS key hangs from his neck. He motions sideways with his gun, and I press back against the pod to give him a clear line of fire as he sends several more shots into the bot that still has its head. Both of the things are now disabled.
Lights are flashing, including the ones in the pool, and I guess that’s what finally broke through the swimmer’s trance. He pokes his head out of the water and is already pulling himself up the ladder when he sees the scattered bot parts lining the beach area and the last few clients pushing through the exit doors. His eyes meet mine as he starts to drop back into the water, but then he freezes in midair as a voice booms out from the hallway.
“Don’t move!” Max yells. “I can shoot you in the water, so do as I say. Kate, grab the guard. We need hostages.”
I take a few steps sideways until I reach her. “Hands up where I can see them!” No idea why I say that, since I’m fairly certain she’s not armed, and, for that matter, neither am I. It just sounds like what I’m supposed to say to someone I’m holding hostage.
Someone I’m holding hostage?
Holy crap.
“Move toward him slowly, okay? We don’t want to hurt anyone, but I’m pretty sure he’ll shoot if he has to.”
She gives me a confused look, and we walk slowly toward Max. The swimmer pulls himself out of the pool and tries to stand, but his legs are shaking, so he just crumples next to the body of the second bot, watching nervously. Max moves the gun back and forth between the two of them with one hand and holds out a second rifle toward me with the other.
This is light-years away from the Colt, a long black automatic of some sort. “I don’t know how to shoot this, Max!”
He rolls his eyes and shoves it into my hands anyway. “Point toward the swimmer. Pull the trigger if I tell you to. Safety is off.”
I nearly drop the thing when he says that, but manage to maintain my grip.
“Where are the keys?” he asks.
“Safe.” I say it with as much certainty as I can muster, but Max still gives me an incredulous look.
“You stupid little . . .” Max clenches his teeth and turns toward the security guard. “Take off the vest—slowly—and slide it toward me.”
“We only wanted to question her,” the guard says. But she does as she’s told, and Max tosses the vest into the pool.
“Now both of you. Into the hallway. Keep going.”
Once they’re about twenty feet inside, Max slides down with his back against the wall on the right and motions for me to do the same on the opposite wall. “Keep your gun—and your eyes—on them. She had a communicator in the vest, so I think we’ll have more robot friends joining us shortly. At least I hope it’s just the bots.”
“I didn’t think you could jump this far. Julia said—”
“My dad was killed because he let people know he could use the key. Julia didn’t want me to risk it. But I’m smarter than that.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“You didn’t show up on schedule,” he snaps, still looking toward the rec center. “Which meant you were either dead or stranded. So someone had to come save your ass.”
“I thought Fifth Column rules prohibited that? When I wanted to go back and save Julia, Tilson told me—”
“Yeah, well that was going back. Changing history. This is going forward. It hasn’t happened yet. Not the same thing. And either way, whether I like it or not, you’re the one exception to that rule. If you do something stupid and get yourself killed—past, present, or future—I have to fix it.”
I don’t really have a response to that, and I feel a little guilty for not trusting him earlier. Oh, hell. For not trusting him still. Because even though he’s here trying to get me out of this mess, I don’t like him and I don’t trust him. Mostly because he was with Eve, but also because I know that getting Mom and Katherine back safely is pretty much rock bottom on Max’s list of priorities. I could understand it being below preventing the Culling. As much as it pains me, I’d have to put that first, too. But for him, it ranks below preserving his branch of Cyrist International, and there we part ways.
“But how did you find me? How did you know where to look?”
“No thanks to you, that’s for sure, since you wouldn’t leave me the coordinates. I was about to go back to Plan A—the jet packs—but that black hole isn’t there anymore. It’s smack dab in the middle of a wall or something. We were trying to figure out some way to work around that when Dunne showed up with the info. Where did he take the keys?”
“I don’t know.”
He curses and spits into the corner, which is ick and adds one more reason for me not to like him. “They’re probably in Saul’s hands already.”
“If Kiernan was going to turn them over to Simon and Saul, why would he have given you the coordinates to find me? Once I’m out of here, he’ll give me the keys, and Connor will destroy them.”
“No. We have people to handle that. You bring the keys to the hotel, and we’ll take it from there.”
I don’t answer. If Max takes my silence as agreement, then fine, but no way in hell will I put those keys into the hands of these unnamed people of his, none of whom I’ve met.
There’s a noise in the distance. Max must hear it, too, because he pulls up the gun, pointing it toward the door. “When was the last time you tried the key?”
“Maybe five minutes ago?”
“Well, try again. The hotel first, five fifty. If that doesn’t work, then this room, three nights back. I’ll follow.”
“Why not five thirty? I could keep you from—”
“We don’t want the double memories. Just go!”
“Can you get back?”
“Yes.” There’s not a hint of hesitation, so either he’s tested himself on a long jump like this or he’s not someone I’d want to face at poker.
I balance the gun against my shoulder and stare menacingly at the two hostages as I yank out my CHRONOS key. This would be the perfect time to gang up and attack me, while I’m distracted. I can tell the security guard is thinking the same thing, even if she doesn’t have a clue what I’m doing with the key. “Don’t even think it. Move all the way back. Both of you. On your stomachs, hands behind your heads. Now!”
Yeah, it’s straig
ht out of NCIS. I guess Mom’s crush on that Gibbs guy came in handy.
Just as they lie down, Max begins firing. I don’t have time to check on his progress, so I pull up the stable point at the hotel and blink in.
RESIDENCE INN
BURTONSVILLE, MARYLAND
September 12, 5:50 p.m.
I arrive at the center of a strange tableau. The first thing I see is Eve, on the sofa, still duct-taped. Still wearing her nasty little smile, too, but it fades fast when she sees me. Tilson sits to her right, his crutches against the wall. He’s holding her wrist, and he doesn’t look pleased about it, but I guess it was the only way to extend the protection of the CHRONOS field without the risk of returning her key.
Charlayne is in front of me, holding a rifle identical to the one in my hand, raised to shoulder height and pointed at Kiernan, who’s sitting on the bed. He looks more bored than afraid.
Trey must have been behind me, because I feel his arms surrounding me as I step toward Charlayne.
“Put down the gun! Kiernan’s not the enemy. Have you all gone crazy?”
Charlayne gives me a nervous look, but keeps the weapon up.
“God, Kate. You’re okay.”
I hear the question in Trey’s voice as he pulls me toward him.
“I’m okay.” I close my eyes for a second and lean into him.
“Kiernan told me,” he whispers. “That it’s not you in Rio.”
He clutches me against his chest. A bit of the tension drains away, until the sensation of hot metal against my skin brings it rushing back.
It’s the barrel of Max’s gun brushing against my bare shoulder as he jumps in. Trey and I are mere inches from the stable point, and I guess Max didn’t have time to scan forward. How many shots did he have to fire to get the barrel that hot? I just hope none of his targets were human.