Invictus

by Ryan Graudin

Dreams, badges, his will to fight… all that was gone. Far didn’t even have the energy to make it past the entertainment room, and so he sprawled across the rug, performing a scrupulous examination of the ceiling. There wasn’t much to study: just white interrupted by a light fixture and a single crack that whispered along the room’s length. He’d spent the past forty minutes watching a jumping spider begin an epic trek from one end of the room to the other, ignoring the messages Gram kept pinging to his interface: WHAT HAPPENED? WHERE ARE YOU? I THOUGHT WE WERE SUPPOSED TO MEET FOR LIBATIONS???

  Priya’s question was even worse: HOW’S THE VICTORY DANCE GOING?

  There was music, but it wasn’t the happy kind. Punched Up Panda’s anthem had gone straight in the trash, replaced by the cyber-metal radio station thrashing through Far’s comm. He’d turned it up to max volume in a vain attempt to drown out Marin’s speech about hubris and history hashing. The rant cycled through Far’s thoughts on repeat, angrier than the synthesized song screams. Louder, too. Diagnostics showed all systems are untampered with. You hashed up royally. YOU FAILED.

  He didn’t hear Imogen press her palmdrive to the front door’s lockpad. What he did hear was her yell, “Sorry I’m late! I picked up some gelato on the way home. I thought we could celebr—Far?”

  There was a thud—she’d dropped something, the gelato probably—followed by panicked steps.

  Far was still staring at the ceiling when his cousin’s hair spilled into his face: bright pastel color, stabbing ends. The closest he’d ever come to describing Imogen McCarthy’s personality was by comparing it to a kaleidoscope. Always changing, always surprising. COLORFUL. She flowed from one thing into the next in a way that was never expected but made perfect sense.

  Imogen’s hair was the most obvious canvas for this. In the 366 days since her Academy graduation, Far had seen his cousin’s hair 366 variations of colors. She chalked them in every morning, washed them out every night. This seemed like an inordinate amount of work to Far, but Imogen would have it no other way. Dye was too permanent. Natural blond was too boring.

  Today it was violet and very much in his face. Far couldn’t find the strength to wave, so he huffed the offending strands away.

  “Crux! I thought you were dead or something!” Imogen leaned back on her heels. The ceiling returned. The spider was still marching, eight legs milling across the plaster wasteland. Where was it going? All Far could see in the arachnid’s immediate future was blank space….

  His cousin frowned. Her stare lingered on the wool stockings and waistcoat Far had still been wearing when he stormed out of the Academy—hash you very much! “What happened?”

  “I failed.”

  Imogen didn’t move. She sat on the floor beside him, silent for the length of another cyber-metal song. It hammered through Far’s ear. The ceiling melted orange with the light of the Flaming Hour, and the jumping spider reached the other side of the room, disappearing behind a HAPPY 17TH UNBIRTHDAY, FARWAY! banner. The sign had outlived its usefulness by half a month.

  “I failed,” Far said again, thinking that maybe the words would make him feel better, or at least give the day some sense. All they did was punch the spiderless ceiling.

  Imogen left and returned with a carton and two spoons, settling cross-legged next to him. “I got honeycomb flavor. Your favorite.”

  If anything, the gelato made Far feel worse. The silky treat—real cream, genuine sugar—was a luxury. Something only senators and high-ranking Corps members and people with connections could afford. When he and Imogen were younger, his mother spoiled them with cartons of the stuff. As if pints of pistachio or key lime or raspberry sweetness could make up for the fact that she was still going on expeditions, aging months in the span of minutes. Chocolate was the flavor she’d bought before she boarded the Ab Aeterno ten years ago and never came back. The ship was declared untraceable by the Corps, lost in a way that could never be found again.

  At least, that was what the Corps officials told him. There’d been chocolate then, too—a mug of cocoa going cold on the coffee table. Far ignored it, staring hard at the officer’s infinity hourglass badge, eyes traveling its loop around and around. Your mother is lost…. Sergeant Hammond, too. I’m sorry, son. We’ve done everything we can. What happened to them will remain a mystery.

  Even at seven years old, Far refused to believe this. He knew, he just knew, that when he wore a badge like that, he’d go back in time and find the Ab Aeterno.

  “Eat.” Imogen held out a spoon, waiting for him to take it. “Sugar and fat heal all wounds.”

  “You can’t afford that,” Far said to the ceiling.

  She shrugged and dropped the utensil. It landed with a thud on his chest. “I’ve been saving up some credits, working OT in the shop.”

  Imogen had attended the Academy on the Historian track, which was popular and thus overpopulated, producing more licensed Historians than expeditions could take on. Imogen applied for every single CTM mission she could, only to watch the position fall to another, more experienced Historian. Once she’d been put on standby (she’d bought gelato in celebration of that occasion as well—lemon lavender), but nothing came of it.

  In the meantime Imogen worked as a style consultant in a boutique, dressing the rich and fabulous according to their favorite datastream era. The work at Before & Beyond was menial and underpaying, but Imogen always came home with stories. She liked to reenact incidents featuring her more dramatic customers. There was Eleanor Chun, a senator’s wife who was so addicted to Roaring Twenties datastreams that it was rumored she’d tried to bribe her way onto a 1920s New York City CTM expedition. There was Lucille Marché, who only ever wore white stolas with embroidered edges and was on a strict diet of soy-flavored meal blocks. There was Patrick Lucas, who always custom-ordered top hats and other elaborate millinery but never paid the credits when they arrived.

  Far had never met these people, but he felt like he knew them. Imogen’s impersonations were almost better than datastreams, which was good, because Far didn’t plan on watching a datastream ever again.

  “What happened today?” He needed a story now. Anything to derail his mind from the dark track it was going down.

  “I got chewed out for bringing Mrs. Chun a flapper dress a size too large.” The silver bangles Imogen wore chimed as she stabbed her spoon into the gelato. “Another costuming order came in. The CTM Churchill is preparing to explore fourteen hundreds Florence. So I’m going to be drowning in Renaissance gowns for the next week. Checking the Recorder’s entire wardrobe for accu—”

  She stopped midsyllable, a sudden jerk in conversation that startled Far. Why had she—Oh. Right. CTMs. Time travel. Wardrobes.

  So much for derailing.

  Imogen stayed quiet for another moment. The spoonful of gelato in her hand was starting to drip all over the rug. “I’m sure you can file a formal appeal.”

  That was Imogen. Eternal optimist. The grass is still green on this side and never ever ever give up type of girl. Usually Far found her view refreshing. A dose of color and sugar to counter the cynic inside him.

  She meant well. She always did. But today Far found no comfort in her encouragements. Hashing up in an Academy Sim was the end of your career. Hashing up in actual history could be the end of the world. When it came to time travel, there was no such thing as redos, and as Instructor Marin had so bluntly reminded Far, he was not an exception.

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” he said.

  “Right.” Imogen’s mouth twisted. “Well, I didn’t spend fifteen hundred credits on gelato to watch it melt. So you better get your tail off the floor and eat it with me.”

  Far didn’t want to move, but fifteen hundred credits was over twenty hours clocked at the boutique. The thought of Imogen’s hard work melting into nothing forced him to grab the spoon and sit up.

  Enough had been lost today.

  They took alternate jabs at the golden cream. Imogen filled the spaces between bites with
New Forum gossip and dress dramas, trying her best to edit any mentions of time travel. But the gaps were too obvious. Time travel was discovered only thirty-one years ago, but its cultural presence was inextricable. Everything revolved around it: entertainment, fashion, science, architecture, agriculture. You couldn’t walk outside without seeing a twenty-second-century flash-leather suit or triggering an implant advert for ZOMBEES© HONEY—THE SWEETNESS IS BACK (APPROVED BY THE CENTRAL BOARD OF AGRICULTURAL REHABILITATION). No matter how carefully Imogen censored her tales, stinging details still slipped through.

  BUZZ.

  Far was almost relieved when the flat’s doorbell jerked Imogen to her feet. She bounded to the door—purple hair flouncing—and opened it to find nothing but hallway.

  “That’s weird. Oh—” Imogen bent down, staring at something Far couldn’t see.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s… a letter.” His cousin nudged the door shut. “For you.”

  A letter. Far felt the hair on the base of his neck bristling, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

  “This is old paper. Real ink,” Imogen noted as she handed the envelope over. Elegant penmanship marked Far’s name on the front. “I’ve only seen stuff like this in museums and Sims.”

  The prickly feeling spilled down Far’s shoulders and back as he tore open the envelope. The card inside was covered in the same loopy writing—

  Second chances are rare. Don’t waste yours.

  Eleven o’clock tonight.

  The Forum, Zone 1

  Far stared and stared at the letters, waiting for them to rearrange or vanish in front of him. The card was wrong. Second chances weren’t rare. They just…weren’t.

  “What is it?” Imogen asked.

  Old paper, real ink, second chances, a night-cloaked meeting in Old Rome… It reeked of danger and black market schemes, calling to Far in a way he could not ignore: DON’T WASTE THIS.

  He didn’t want to lie to his cousin, but he wasn’t ready to tell her the truth, either.

  “An invitation.” Far folded the card into quarters and tucked it into the pocket of that ridiculous waistcoat. His chest one gram of paper heavier, one whole future lighter.

  5

  YESTERDAY YET

  ZONE 1 WAS MORE OF A museum than a neighborhood. Rent in the Old Rome district reached astronomical heights, despite its leaky roofs and primitive plumbing. The only people who could afford the luxury of nonluxury were the very same people who frequented Imogen’s shop. They shelled out credits by the zeros for flats they used once or twice a month. If that.

  As ridiculous as it seemed, Far understood the draw. The buildings might be crumbling, but they were also mesmerizing, covered in wistful vines, their stucco as colored and cracked as Easter eggs. When you walked the streets cobbled with fountains and gelaterias, grooved with the tracks of automobiles and horse-drawn carts, it was almost like stepping back in time.

  Almost.

  But the present circled the ancient capital in the form of skyscrapers and satellite towers. Even if you didn’t look to the horizon, it came to you—hovercrafts weaving a constant blanket of noise overhead.

  Walking through Zone 1 never failed to stir the hunger in Far’s heart. It tumbled and yawned, reminding him that he wanted so much more than this world of Sims and datastreams and everything-all-of-the-time. He wouldn’t have been able to stand passing the Colosseum without the card tucked inside his waistcoat: Second-chance hope, you’ll walk these stones yesterday yet. Every few steps, he patted his pocket to make sure the invitation hadn’t vanished.

  The old Forum felt anything but welcoming when Far arrived. Two minutes early. He scanned the ruins—broken stones flickering under hovercraft lights—but they were empty. Tourists often visited this place in the daylight hours, shuffling from one site to the next while conjunctive datastreams flowed through their corneal implants. With one eye they took in the present; with the other they gazed at the past. Digital ghosts enacted history right in front of them: triumphal processions, temple ceremonies, gladiatorial fights…

  Right now, with the deep gaps of darkness between the Temple of Saturn’s freestanding columns, it was easy for Far to imagine ghosts in their truer form. Shadows kept crowding his vision. He found himself getting fidgety.

  “Switch off your comm.” The voice came from behind Far, but when he turned, there was nothing but night and stone.

  “If you wish to proceed with this meeting you’ll switch off your comm.”

  No—not behind him. Inside him. Someone had linked to his comm without a contact request. Second hack of the day? Far’s stomach cinched as he ordered his comm offline.

  A man stepped out from behind a column. He sported a black cape, complete with a hood that made him look like some sort of Renaissance assassin. With a wordless wave, he beckoned Far to follow him through the old Forum’s scattered stones and weeds, all the way to the ruins’ southern perimeter, where he stepped behind a second column. When Far followed suit, he found a row of arid shrubs hugging an old-as-dirt wall. His guide stood between the shrubs, face to the huge stones. Waiting.

  Far was starting to wonder if he’d made a terrible mistake. Had he been lured out here by some psychopath to get gutted for the credits on his palmdrive? If so, the caped criminal wouldn’t get much. Far lived on a student’s budget. Ten measly credits were all he had to his name….

  This dissuading banking information was on the tip of Far’s tongue when the figure placed his own palm against one of the rocks.

  It opened.

  What looked like first-century Roman stonework was in fact a door. After reading the caped figure’s prints, it rolled back, expelling air heavy with must and darkness. The guide waved again: You first.

  None of this helped Far’s apprehension. He breathed deep, felt the real-paper crinkle of the card against his chest.

  DON’T WASTE THIS.

  It took a few minutes to get used to the dark and the cobwebby smell. The tunnel seemed to be going down, along a course that threatened to collide with the Tiber. The electric light in the caped figure’s hands glistened across wet walls, carved out Far’s path in the shape of his silhouette. He kept moving at the cloaked figure’s wordless urging, until he was positive he’d walked a few kilometers. Maybe more.

  The tunnel ahead opened into a great cavern. How great, Far couldn’t tell. The only light was the figure’s, and it touched no walls, just globed against the dark. As soon as Far walked into the open space, this, too, clicked off….

  It was a darkness he’d never experienced before—complete absence of light. Far wondered if this was what it felt like in the Grid. As if everything in the universe was spread in front of him, or possibly nothing at all.

  He shivered.

  “What’s going on?” His question’s echo was faint. This cavern was extensive….

  “I’m pleased you could join us, Mr. McCarthy.” The voice came from in front of him, and he’d heard no footsteps. It couldn’t belong to the cloaked figure. No, it had to be someone who was already here. Someone who’d been waiting for him.

  “Who exactly is us?” Far asked the darkness.

  “We’ll get to that,” the voice drawled, confident. The more it spoke, the more Far felt he should recognize it. “But I have a few questions for you first.”

  “Go on.”

  “Who do you love the most?” It seemed like a dangerous query, the way it was asked: razored syllables, hungry breath beating, beating against the black.

  “Myself.” This was not the full truth, nor was it a complete lie, but Far’s answer filled the dark well enough.

  “Who do you hate the most?”

  At the moment?

  “Marie Antoinette.” And the person who hacked the Sim, but Far kept that addendum to himself in case said person was standing before him now.

  “What is your deepest fear?”

  “What is this?” Far deflected. “Twenty questions?”


  A sigh. “Just answer me, Mr. McCarthy.”

  “Dying without living.”

  There was a moment of silence before the answer. “How poetic.”

  “My favorite color is beige and I have a purple narwhal tattooed on my tail cheek. His name is Sherbet.” Not knowing what the hash was going on was starting to fray Far’s calm. “Anything else you want to know?”

  “I can see why you get under Marin’s skin,” the voice said. “But I’m not so easily rattled.”

  Marin. The name set Far’s jaw on edge. He was about to ask the voice how he knew about the irate Academy instructor when the world reappeared. Rows and rows of industrial-sized bulbs burst light into what Far now understood was a massive underground warehouse for honest-to-goodness CTMs. Four time machines reared in front of him: sleek as cats, big as houses. The Galileo, the Ad Infinitum, the Armstrong… None of these were names Far recognized—nor were the actual CTM initials stamped onto the vessels’ bows.

  The closest one had no name at all. Its holo-shield invisibility plates were unscratched. Far would’ve bet his tight, tight breeches that the ship’s maiden voyage had yet to be taken.

  “Like them?”

  The man standing to Far’s side was colorless. The white linen loungewear he had on did nothing for his leached gray hair and pallid skin. His eyes were dark but flat. Lacking some essential -ness Far couldn’t quite place. He was the type of person you wouldn’t look at twice if you passed him on the street. But he was also the type of person who wanted you to forget, who watched you, drinking in your every move, filing facts away for later.

  As Far watched the man watching him, he got the very distinct impression that he himself was a file already written. Highlighted and starred. “Why am I here?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Right, well, since we’re playing guessing games…” Far walked to the nameless time machine and placed a hand on the hull’s pearly plates. It was a hulking, elegant thing, with a three-inch-thick lead body and engines powerful enough to bear it. “How long have you been watching me?”