by Wesley Chu
Levin was finally directed to a hollowed-out apartment tucked away in the far corner of one of the less-used floors. Cole was lounging in the room with his team of guardians, smoking cany weed, a pungent herb commonly chewed to numb off-worlds against Earth’s toxins, but also commonly smoked recreationally for its relaxing effect. The weed was banned in ChronoCom because of its addictive nature and its bad side effects when mixed with miasma regimens.
“Uncle.” Cole didn’t seem happy to see him, but didn’t appear outright hostile. Perhaps it was the effect of the cany weed. “What brings us the honor?” There was only a small hint of sarcasm in his voice. He pushed one of the plastic chairs toward Levin. The four men and three women with him looked decidedly uncomfortable in Levin’s presence. Who knew what stories Cole had fed them? One of the women was sitting on his lap.
“I’d like a moment alone with One Cole,” Levin said, not taking his gaze off his nephew.
“My teammates are trustworthy, Uncle,” Cole said. “Besides, we’re all Elfreth now, aren’t we?”
Levin swept his gaze across everyone. “Leave.”
The battle of wills was waged and won within the blink of an eye. First, the woman sitting on Cole’s lap shrank and got up. One by one, the rest of Cole’s team followed suit. They didn’t leave, though, which, to Cole’s credit, was a sign of their loyalty to him.
Cole seemed as if he was going to contest Levin’s order, and then finally nodded. “It’s all right. This shouldn’t take too long.” The team filed out into the hallway. He picked up his half-smoked joint and took a puff. “What do you want?”
Levin sat down opposite him and looked around Cole’s new quarters. They were larger and nicer than most; no doubt he had used his charm and rank to pull off these arrangements. It was a shame he had wanted to follow in Levin’s footsteps and become a chronman. Cole had always been a talker. He’d had such a bright future ahead of him and could have been so much more. “You’re fitting in well with the Elfreth, then?”
“Living in this hollowed-out shithole?” Cole sneered. “Not sure why we went through all this effort to bust out of Nereid only to come here. At least there’s women here. How is reliving your chronman glory days, Uncle? Is it everything you remembered?”
The chasm between them was still there, though to be fair, Levin had not done much to bridge it. It wasn’t surprising, really. Ilana, his sister, hadn’t returned any of his messages, either. Sending your flesh and blood to prison could do that to a family.
“Listen, Cole,” Levin said. “Mistakes were made, and now we’re living with the consequences. Let’s get past this. We’re still family.”
“Really?” said Cole. “Let’s be honest. You don’t think you made a mistake. You’d go back in time and capture me all over again. So what you’re really saying is we’re living with my mistake.”
“I’m saying it’s irrelevant,” Levin retorted, his patience wearing thin. “We need to forgive and learn to trust each other again.”
Cole finished the cany weed and tossed it out the window. He stood up and looked out into the dark fog. “You sent me to fucking prison, Levin, and you’re my uncle. How do you expect me to ever trust you again?”
Levin found an opening here. “I’m heading to Chicago on an important mission. I need someone to watch my back. I want it to be you.”
Cole looked surprised. “Even after everything that’s happened, you’re going to put your life in my hands? Are you that desperate?”
“One of us needs to start trusting the other first.”
There was a long silence as Cole stared into the fog. Finally, he spoke. “I … I was angry for a long time, and to be honest, I still am. But, these past few weeks, as you’re up there salvaging and James working with the flyguards and Elise leading these people, it’s made me reevaluate my life. I’ve been dwelling on the past too much. Perhaps it’s time I look to the future. When do we leave?”
“Dusk tomorrow,” Levin said, offering his hand.
Cole accepted it and pulled him into a rough embrace. “You’re not going to regret it, Uncle. Let me talk to Eriao and my team. I don’t want them to think I’m shirking my duties.”
That had been almost too easy. Levin watched as Cole went out to the hallway to tell his team, and wondered if he had made the right call. His gut told him no. There was a strong chance the boy just wanted to spend some time back in civilization, perhaps simply disappear once they got to the city.
Levin was willing to assume that risk. Like he had said, someone had to trust first. He knew in his heart he could heal this wound between them and rekindle their relationship. He had to. Perhaps it was just his pride talking. In either case, he was willing to take that chance.
FORTY-FOUR
THE ROAD TO RECOVERY
Titus and Grace’s idea of recovery was stupid. The two of them had decided that they were both going to be intricately involved in James’s rehabilitation and had come often to mentor and “life coach” him, and talk about his thoughts and feelings, whatever that meant. With Levin off to Chicago, Grace had much more time on her hands, and had chosen James for her new project. She also was trying to teach him to draw and practice a series of exercises called yoga, while Titus thought he’d enjoy learning to play a rock flute, a musical instrument indigenous to Venus. James was awful at everything.
Right now, he was sitting on his balcony trying to draw Collie, his old collie, from memory. It saddened him that even after twenty years of flying her, he had a hard time remembering her details. She had been a good ship, and James surprised himself with his nostalgia. He was going through a lot of that right now. It was one of the exercises Grace wanted him to work through: think about things in the past he enjoyed. The good moments, people and places and possessions, that had brought him joy.
It wasn’t an easy assignment; good memories were few and far between. James found that he had little skill in drawing; faces were far too difficult, places were far too painful, so he resorted to trying to draw his beloved ship, which Levin had blasted out of the skies. That bastard; a new ship was another thing the guy owed James, especially after how he had commandeered the Frankenstein. If Levin lost that ship, too, the two of them were going to have words. James and the flyguards had put a lot of work into getting the Frankenstein space-worthy.
Smitt appeared and hovered over him as he hunched intently over the table. “What are you doing, my friend?”
“What does it look like?” James wasn’t sure if he was supposed to talk to the ghost of his friend or not. Titus had told him that withdrawal would bring forth hallucinations, but he’d been seeing these apparitions since way before he quit the drink. The thought of alcohol—whiskey, specifically, though shine would do—made his body shudder. He was terrified that he couldn’t drink anymore. Ever again. For the rest of his life.
The expression “rest of his life” had never meant much to him. He had always measured how long he’d live in months, if not weeks. The fact that he’d survived as a chronman for so long still surprised him to this day.
“I’d like to think I had more than a little to do with your making it so far,” Smitt said.
James ignored him and continued to draw. He chose the hangar in Himalia Station as the backdrop and proceeded to populate the space around the ship with what he imagined would be there: a tech crew, power generators, module outputs. Then he focused on the details. His old ship was actually two different collies welded together, with one half of the ship nothing more than a patchwork of metal plates over holes. He couldn’t quite remember the exact details, though; his memory of his chronman days had faded so much.
Smitt leaned over him. “Is that supposed to be me?”
James froze. He had inadvertently drawn two figures standing next to it. One of them looked like James, with short hair and a wiry body. The other, shorter and squatter, could only be Smitt. How had he put his friend in there without realizing it? He crumpled the blood-corn husk he was dra
wing on and threw it off the balcony.
“Hey, what did you do that for?” Smitt walked to the balcony and looked over the side.
James got up and paced the balcony. This boredom was driving him insane. Dox and Chawr were standing guard outside. The flyguards had wised up to all his attempts to let him out or sneak him a drink. No matter how many bribes or threats he threw their way, they were adamant. He was proud of them for standing up to him, though mostly he just wanted to beat them to a pulp. His throat was constantly parched, and he wanted nothing more than to purge this thirst inside him.
There was a knock on the door, and Chawr stuck his head in. “Elder, there’s someone to see you.”
“Is it Elise or Sasha?”
Chawr shook his head sympathetically. He was used to James asking him that by now. Every time someone came to visit, that was the first question out of James’s mouth, and nearly every time, it was just Titus, Grace, or Franwil. It was getting to the point it pained James to even ask, but he couldn’t help himself.
He should be used to the disappointment by now, but every time, James felt his heart drop into his stomach. How long were they going to keep punishing him? It had been over two weeks that he’d been locked up and they hadn’t visited yet. It was starting to kill him. If anything, the urge to see them was becoming stronger than his urge to drink. The fact that almost everyone else had paid him a visit so far put him in a foul mood.
“Tell the Geriatric Brigade I don’t feel like talking to them today.”
“It’s not any of the Oldests.” Chawr hesitated. “It’s Maanx.”
“Abyss fuck me.”
The young asshole couldn’t wait until he got out, huh? Coming to gloat while James was in rehab was terrible form. He wondered if it’d set back his rehabilitation if he kicked the crap out of this kid again. It might just be worth a few extra weeks here in prison. Wait, no. The longer he was locked up here, the longer he wasn’t going to see Sasha and Elise.
Smitt materialized again, on the couch, and stared intently as James walked toward the door. For some reason, the more he tried to ignore Smitt, the more that damn ghost kept appearing, offering unwanted advice and dropping his one-liners.
“Are you really going to keep pretending I’m not here, my friend?” Smitt asked. “Am I the thousand-kilo mutant in the room?”
“You’re actually not, and you’ve always talked too much,” James muttered under his breath. He nodded at Chawr to let the Flatiron commander in and readied himself to take a heap of abuse. Grace said he should apologize to the young commander when James got out of here. He might as well get it over with now, here in private, rather than having to do it publicly in front of his whole tribe. Chawr escorted Maanx in a few seconds later. James noted how strategically the flyguard placed himself between the two.
“Commander,” he began. “Thank you for paying me a visit and saving me the effort of finding you. I want to apologize for the unfortunate—”
“You’re a chronman,” Maanx said.
“Um, is that a question?” James replied.
“My father trained me to fight. He fought like you do.”
“Well, maybe not quite like me.” James wasn’t sure where Maanx was going with this.
“The Teacher was once a chronman.”
Of course. He had noticed Maanx’s moves were reminiscent of those used in Academy training, albeit a faint and sloppy impression of them, as if he had learned secondhand. In this case, he seemed to have learned from an ex-chronman who was thirty years out of practice. It also explained why out of all the tribes that the Flatirons fought off, they had agreed to let in the Elfreth. The story of how Elise and Crowe came to an agreement had always felt off, like some facts were missing. Now it all made sense.
“I did not know that. I would love to speak with the Teacher.”
“My father was already old when I was born. He taught me what he knew of his chronman training, but I know he has already forgotten more than he remembers.” Maanx walked past James to the middle of the room and turned around. “Teach me what he has forgotten.”
That threw James. The last thing he thought the Flatiron commander would want was to learn from him. Could this hothead even be taught? Was he willing to listen and obey James’s instructions? Did James even want to teach the kid? He wasn’t sure.
“I’m not sure if this is a good idea. I’m in recovery, and there’s a lot of people out there who think we just got into a brawl. The last thing I want them to see is us fighting more, even if it’s practice. Besides, combat training is a teacher-student relationship. Are you sure you want to subject—”
“The Flatirons are at war. I need to be strong for my tribe.” Maanx dropped to a knee and made a fist with his two hands. It was the same pose used by initiates at the Academy during training. “Master.”
“Get up, man.” James fidgeted as the Teacher’s son remained kneeling in front of him. “Before someone sees this. Where did you learn that salute anyway?”
“Will you teach me, chronman?”
Chawr raised his hand. “I’d like to learn, too, Elder.”
“I’m not opening an academy here.”
The flyguard shrugged. “I’m just saying. If you’re going to teach the Flatiron commander, I want in as well.”
Just like that, in the middle of a rehabilitation stint, James acquired his first two initiates. He had never taught anyone before; the Academy disapproved of chronmen interacting with initiates. James thought it was because the directors and teachers feared the initiates would quit once they learned the truth about a chronman’s life.
Starting that morning, James began training them the only way he knew how. He followed the strict discipline and structure that the Academy had instilled in him, half hoping that they would get disillusioned after the novelty wore off. Chawr and Maanx were attentive and enthusiastic students, though. The three of them spent the afternoon running through several basic exercises as he gauged their skills.
Right away, he noticed Maanx was a natural. The lad was not only physically talented, he was quick in his head as well as on his feet. He was also curious, often asking the right questions, which escaped Chawr’s grasp. Now James realized that Maanx’s position as a commander of the Flatirons wasn’t just due to nepotism. The kid might have the personality of a troll, but he had abilities. If he had joined the Academy at an earlier age, he could have made a fine chronman.
They worked straight through dinner, and by the time they finished, all three were drenched in sweat. James felt wiped out as he toweled himself off. He nodded to his new students as they cooled down with the stretching exercises he showed them. He had been in so much pain from the withdrawal and so stationary in this room that he had forgotten how good it felt to move again. Moving around with the alcohol purged from his body felt strange, and all the sensations and reactions that had once been familiar now felt foreign. One would think his abilities would have sharpened, but if anything, they were much worse than before. James tried to tell himself that his diminishing reflexes were just the result of his acclimating to life without the drink constantly in his veins.
“Can we do this tomorrow morning?” Maanx asked eagerly.
“I have to help with the farm,” Chawr said. “Can we start earlier?”
James made a face. “Let’s see how you guys feel in the morning. There’s no need to rush things.”
He watched as the two bowed and walked into the next room, chatting pleasantly. He figured those two had never shared a word between them before. A smile appeared on his face as he made his way to bed. He hurt all over as he crawled his way into the sheets. Today had been a good day.
“Day’s not over yet,” Smitt said, appearing next to him on the chair.
“Go away,” James said, lying on his back and closing his eyes. “I’m not talking to you.”
“You can’t ignore me forever,” Smitt said. “In fact, I think it’s time we figure this out.”
�
�You’re not real, just a hallucination from lag sickness and drink.”
“You only think that, my friend. You’ve quit time traveling and drinking. Why am I still here?”
James turned over and drifted off to sleep with Smitt’s words bouncing around in his head. Why was Smitt still there? The hallucinations of Grace, Sasha, and the Nazi soldier had all faded. He had seen them only in brief glimpses here and there, and usually as barely more than anything other than shadows in the background. This was his psyche telling him something, but what? Sleep draped over him quickly, and for a few beautiful seconds, everything was black and serene.
James opened his eyes and found himself sitting at the Tilted Orbit back at Himalia Station. Smitt was sitting next to him, pouring them both a shot of whiskey. He slid one over to James, and grinned. “See, I did warn you. You can’t ignore me forever.”
FORTY-FIVE
CLOSURE
James stared down at the brown liquid sloshing around the glass cup. Half of it had spilled onto the counter when Smitt slid it over. He immediately felt the alcohol’s pull on his body, as if it were a miniature black hole sucking him in. He caught himself staring even as he tried to look away.
“Why are you doing this? I’m trying to be clean.”
Smitt acted surprised. “Oh, so now you’re talking to me.”
James’s arms trembled and he willed them to stay flat on the counter. He couldn’t pick up the glass. If he did, all his suffering and sacrifice would be for nothing. “Get that thing out of my sight. Please.”
Smitt chuckled, took the glass, and gulped it down. “Too bad. That was a twenty-first-century double-barrel Luxe Empire special. Your favorite.”