Invictus

by Ryan Graudin

  “You’ve always been a point of interest, given the circumstances of your birth. And then what happened to your mother… a shame.”

  Far’s reflection shimmered back at him: opal shades and anger. Shame. He hated that word, never understood why people used it in the wake of tragedies. To him, it always sounded like surrender.

  “Your Sim performances have always been superb. Today’s notwithstanding.” The man drew closer until his reflection appeared in the hologram plate as well. “You fear nothing that’s inconsequent. You aren’t overly stiff, nor are you reckless. Your judgment calls are bold but clean. Risk done right. The potential, the talent, the fearlessness, the drive… all of my requirements are there. Now, thanks to a flirtatious Tier Three queen, we can both have what we want. You need a time machine, and I need a captain. You’ve got the drive and the talent. I’ve got the ship and the fuel.”

  “Captain?” Far’s mouth went dry at the word, cracked with the possibilities of it. His heartbeat oozed through these gaps.

  “I need someone of skill to go back in time and—acquire—certain items for me. I’ll give you and your crew five percent of the cut, as well as appropriate amounts of fuel and use of the TM.”

  The black market trade of past-snatched luxuries wasn’t so much a secret as a conveniently ignored fact. Central’s upper crust was attached to such creature comforts: Vintage wines, artisan cheeses, coffee, and fresh flowers could all be found floating around the mansions of the Palisades. According to Imogen’s shop gossip, even senators were in on the indulgence, which was why no formal raid had ever been made by the government. What did history’s integrity matter if there was nonsynthetic chocolate for the tasting?

  Never mind a single wink. Hashing hypocrites.

  “Were you the one who corrupted my exam Sim?” Because Far was as sure as shazm that someone had, and he couldn’t imagine that a mogul whose operation was twenty types of illegal would have qualms about cracking the Corps’ computer systems.

  “When it comes to your Sim, I was a mere observer.” It was a cool response, chill over the shoulder. “The queen’s attentions were a stroke of luck.”

  Far turned to face the man. “I don’t believe in luck.”

  “Then I’m doubly fortunate.” The black marketer’s grin was as wan as the rest of him, crowded with canines. “A man who doesn’t believe in luck works twice as hard. If someone did sabotage your Sim, you should be thanking them. Souls like yours were never meant for Corps work. Did you really want to spend your life picking flowers for the Central Board of Agricultural Rehabilitation? Filming parties and battles for perpetually discontented datastream addicts? No, Farway McCarthy. You would have choked to death on the Corps’ protocol. Wearing their uniform would have been its own prison.”

  These words struck a chord. The Corps had only ever been a means to an end. The end itself remained: a time machine at Far’s back, centuries for the seizing, the Ab Aeterno waiting to be found sometime among them. As tempting as it was to go full-on Pavlovian—drool on the warehouse floor, et cetera—Far knew dreams weren’t handed over without a price.

  “So making wine runs as your bootlegger errand boy is a life of free-range fun by comparison?”

  “I have more than enough couriers.” The man nodded at the other three TMs. “What I need is a thief. History is brimming with lost treasures. The Fabergé eggs. Art sacked and burned by the Nazis. Blackbeard’s hoard of gold. Things that will never be missed or noticed by the Corps. Things you’re going to help me obtain.”

  “You want me to plunder time for you.” Far let the thought sit a moment. It was more exciting than loading up crates of cheese wheels. Riskier, too. “Aren’t you afraid that I’ll slip up and screw over history as we know it?”

  “The universe always has a way of righting itself, Mr. McCarthy. Course correction. God’s will. Karma. Fate. Call it what you will. Things tend to balance themselves out.” The man’s eyes never left Far as he said all this. Crux! Did the man ever blink? Was it possible he was a droid? Though most droids had eyelids…

  “Speaking of balance. Seems a bit unfair you know so much about me and I don’t even know your name.”

  “Lux Julio,” the man said. “Anything else you’d like to know?”

  “Plenty.” Far looked around the warehouse. It was a warren of a place, walls riddled with tunnels. Exits, exits, everywhere, and while some of them were large enough to accommodate magcart tracks, none were suited for a time machine’s girth. “How do you get the TMs in and out?”

  Lux pointed past the lights, where the cavern vaulted with cathedral-esque aerobatics. “This ceiling wasn’t always made of earth. My ships leave the anchor date—our present—by jumping to June 2155, a time when the Tiber’s riverbed carved through here. From there they fly to their physical destination, and jump to whatever year is necessary. The return trip is the same.”

  “Four jumps for one load of cargo?” Far whistled. “That’s a hash ton of fuel.”

  “Discretion has its costs,” Lux said. “This isn’t a job for the faint of heart. Should you agree to my terms, I expect results. Failure to deliver my cargo will lead to… unpleasantness.”

  Ah. Now they were getting into the nitty-gritty—sell your soul for silver coins, Doctor Faustus territory. “Care to elaborate?”

  “The items I’m sending you after are one-of-a-kind. Irreplaceable. My buyers are willing to put down millions of credits. It’s my opinion that the forfeit should be equivalent to the loss. Say you return with a partially burnt Van Gogh. I’d be inclined to fire you, but not before I wiped your palmdrive and blacklisted your name for every future employer. Cross me and I can end your dreams, your freedom, your life.”

  “You sure know how to pitch yourself,” Far said, making a mental note to never, ever flip off Lux Julio.

  “You’re still free to walk away, though here’s what will happen if you do. Once I dope you up with Nepenthe, you’ll wake up with no memory of this meeting, an empty ache inside your chest. Datastreams will torment you. You’ll watch your licensed friends grow decades older in the span of days, living the life of adventure you were destined for. The despair will eat you alive until all you can think about is how to end it.” The words alone were terrifying, but the way they left Lux’s lips made them darker still. Ruthless truth, said with a smile no droid programmer would ever authorize. “Work for me, and time is yours for the taking.”

  A second chance. And Far’s last.

  For the taking.

  He wasn’t quite snatching yet.

  “Seven percent,” Far countered. The black market mogul cocked his head at the number. The air around him sharpened, and Far found himself wondering what a halo was called when it did not shine gold. “I want seven percent of the cut, plus enough fuel for a free trip every heist we complete. Also, I get to choose my crew.”

  Getting away with highly illegal, unregulated time travel was enough of a challenge. Doing it without souls Far trusted—and liked—would be impossible. He already had a running roster in his head.

  “Why should I be inclined to give you these things?” Lux asked.

  “If the forfeit is equivalent to the loss, the reward should be equivalent to the gain,” Far reasoned. “I’ll be making you millions. Another two percent and a few vacations is an even trade.”

  “We have ourselves an agreement, Mr. McCarthy.” Lux gestured to the figure in the corner. The hooded man moved between them, pulling out a sheet of parchment very much like the one tucked in Far’s waistcoat.

  I hereby enter into the service of Lux Julio under the agreed-upon terms, it read, followed by a blank dotted line.

  “I like sealing deals in writing,” Lux explained. “That way if you rat, you burn.”

  The stationery felt awkward in Far’s hands: too heavy and there. Though pen to paper was a dead art, he’d learned handwriting during his first year of Academy—just one of the many strange skills they had to learn to fit into other er
as. Along with horseback riding, operating an automobile, cooking with a microwave, and loading a rifle.

  He held the pen over the document, fingers cramping with muscle memory. There was just one more request…. “I get to christen the ship.”

  Lux nodded, trying his best to appear benevolent. The look didn’t suit him.

  Far’s pen was too close to the paper. Its ink seeped out, a disturbing red, pooling at the base of what would soon be an F. He scrawled out the rest of his name in an unpracticed hurry. The whole thing looked off-kilter.

  Lux accepted the signature, rolling the paper into a scroll. He nodded at the TM. “What will you call her?”

  Why were ships always hers? Imogen would know. Far would have to ask his cousin when he got back to the flat. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Make it good.” Lux’s fist closed over the document, covering the spot where Far’s name had bled through. “You’re stuck with it, Captain McCarthy.”

  Captain. I am the captain….

  Far looked back at the ship. Its holo-shield plates swallowed the overhead light, made it mesmerizing. He could still hear the parchment wrinkling against Lux’s palm as he stared at the hull: plain bright bursting into pink, green, blue shimmer.

  “There are worse things to be stuck with,” he said.

  PART II

  How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:

  Unborn TO-MORROW, and dead YESTERDAY,

  Why fret about them if TO-DAY be sweet!

  —OMAR KHAYYÁM, AS TRANSLATED BY EDWARD FITZGERALD

  “THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM”

  6

  PRETTY, PRETTY PLUNDER

  INVICTUS SHIP’S LOG—ENTRY 2 (THOUGH TECHNICALLY IT SHOULD BE ENTRY 345 IF FARWAY WEREN’T SLACKING ON HIS CAPTAIN DUTIES)

  ANCHOR DATE: AUGUST 22, 2371

  CURRENT DATE: JUNE 11, 2155 (HOW ELSE WOULD WE LAUNCH OUT OF OUR TOP SECRET DOCK LIKE SUPERHEROES?)

  CURRENT LOCATION: SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC? PROBABLY?

  DESTINATION DATE: APRIL 14, 1912

  DESTINATION LOCATION: ATLANTIC OCEAN, RMS TITANIC

  OBJECT TO ACQUIRE: A PRETTY, PRETTY BOOK

  IMOGEN’S HAIR COLOR: AQUAMARINE WITH A HINT OF BUBBLE-GUM PINK

  GRAM’S TETRIS SCORE: 354,000

  CURRENT SONG ON PRIYA’S SHIPWIDE PLAYLIST: “EVERYDAY PAST” BY ACIDIC SISTERS

  FARWAY’S EGO: AVERAGELY INFLATED)PAL.NX^&54LLLLLLLLLL

  IMOGEN’S VIEW OF THE SCREEN WAS invaded by cuteness in the form of fur, four paws, and BOUNCING. The red panda danced across her digital keyboard, paws lighting up random letters. Decades of domestication hadn’t prevented these ginger fluffballs from dying out in the twenty-third century, nor had extinction deterred Imogen from acquiring one. Saffron: cutest pain in the tail there ever was.

  “Off!” She clucked at the animal, which proceeded to rest his rump exactly where Imogen did not want it. AW;EOFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFJNSKMMMMMM She picked Saffron up by the scruff and set him on the floor, surveying the damage. Nothing a good, long session with the Delete key couldn’t fix.

  Delete. Delete. Delete. Back to AVERAGELY INFLATED.

  Imogen nibbled at the end of her aquamarine-with-a-hint-of-bubble-gum-pink hair and stared at the entry, trying to scrounge up adjectives to describe her cousin’s most defining trait. Maybe she should create a sliding scale: size-of-a-pinhead-pride to dictator-of-the-month all the way to RED-ALERT-the-wax-of-your-wings-is-melting-and-we’re-all-going-down-in-flames.

  “What are you doing?”

  Speak of the devil! Imogen twisted around her chair—it was her one nonnegotiable request in joining the Invictus’s crew, a seat that spun—to face Farway. One look and she could tell her cousin wasn’t actually angry. When he was fake-mad his eyebrows trembled. Actually pissed and those suckers would be stock-still.

  “I’m writing a ship’s log,” she told him. “Which, incidentally, is the captain’s job. I’ve told you I don’t know how many times that the Invictus’s logs need to be kept. Keeping track of birthdays is hard enough with one timeline, but when you start mixing our cover lives with our historical gallivanting it’s hashing impossible.”

  Due to the less-than-legal nature of their activities, the crew kept up with their old jobs in Central time. The result? Three months of life as they knew it—long shop hours and family dinners. Almost thrice that had been spent aboard the Invictus, which made a proper mess of their biological calendars. It’d take more than math, however, to keep Imogen from celebrating a birthday.

  “I keep records!” Farway waved at the wall beneath the ship’s vistaport—as dark as the chalkboards of old, covered in descriptions of their missions. Imogen’s hair chalks had been press-ganged into the effort. They weren’t meant for writing with, but that hadn’t stopped her cousin from spelling out his successes in silver and blush, white and aqua. Farway’s highlight reel was bright indeed.

  1945: RESCUED GUSTAV KLIMT PAINTING FROM EXPLODING NAZI CASTLE.

  1836: BRUSHED ELBOWS WITH DAVY CROCKETT. DUG UP GOLD AT THE ALAMO. HEAVY AS A THREE-HUMPED CAMEL.

  1511: EVADED THE SWISS GUARD TO RETRIEVE MICHELANGELO’S PAINTBRUSH FROM SISTINE CHAPEL SCAFFOLDING.

  There were thirty such descriptions, each a testament to some treasure and the trouble they’d gone through to get it. Imogen appreciated the list’s multihued aesthetics, but in terms of record-keeping it was… smudgeable. A brush of Saffron’s tail had turned Blackbeard’s name into Bla—rd and cutlass into cut-ass. Imogen giggled whenever she saw it.

  She choked back the laugh as she addressed her cousin. “We need something more bona fide than your brag wall. Records that capture our comings and goings, the day-to-day spirit of the Invictus.”

  “Oh.” Farway leaned in to read the text. “Bubble-gum pink? Looks more coral to me.”

  “Coral?” Imogen gave a mock gasp. “In what world would this color be considered coral? Are you sure you don’t need to have your vision checked?”

  “I’ve got eagle eyes and you know it.” Farway pressed the Delete key.

  Good-bye, AVERAGELY INFLATED. Nice knowing you.

  “Hey!” Imogen dropped her not-coral hair and swatted at her cousin’s knuckles. “I spent, like, thirty seconds typing that.”

  Farway endured her assault, kept typing: FARWAY’S EGO: RIPPED TO SHREDS BY CRUEL, UNFEELING COUSIN. RIP. Imogen was positive her cousin would’ve droned on with his pride’s digital eulogy if Saffron hadn’t decided to tackle Farway’s calf.

  “Crux!” He swore as ten claws needled his shin. “Get the cat off me!”

  A snicker came from across the room. Gram, the Invictus’s Engineer, cleared his throat and pretended to be wholly engrossed in his Tetris game.

  “Red panda.” Imogen leaned down to remove said creature from Farway’s pants. “Ailurus fulgens in your mother tongue.”

  Her cousin’s expression soured, not so much with pain as with the word mother, made all the more aching by Imogen’s use of Latin. Neither McCarthy child needed translation tech for the language because Aunt Empra always spoke it with them. Imogen could still conjugate the shazm out of words in her sleep, though she hadn’t used the skill in eleven years. Neither of them had since the Ab Aeterno had vanished. Thinking about her aunt’s disappearance made Imogen’s throat tight. She couldn’t imagine how Farway felt about it.

  He brushed the subject off like he always did: “So what’s the scoop? Or were you too busy doing my job to do yours?”

  Right. Imogen should probably add DASH OF CROTCHETINESS INDUCED BY RED PANDA CLAWS to the day’s tally. She’d do that later, when Farway wasn’t watching. He’d never read the logs anyway.

  “Boss-man’s got you going after some pretty-pretty.” Imogen pulled up the mission specs Lux’s assistant Wagner had downloaded into the Invictus’s mainframe during their last stint in Central. “The Rubaiyat. Also known as the Great Omar. It’s a book of Persian poems. This particular edition went down with the Titanic in 1912. Book
binders in Britain spent two years snazzing it up with gold and semiprecious stones and then sold it to an American. Obviously it never actually finished the journey across the pond. The bookbinding firm tried to make a second version, but it was crispified down to the jewels during the Blitz in World War II. Rumor has it the book was cursed.”

  The image was a drawing based on archival descriptions. Three peacocks flocked across the cover; their proud tail feathers sprayed with amethysts, topazes, and rubies. The book’s edges were detailed with golden embroidery. Most of the things they stole were pretty, but this was by far Imogen’s favorite. Hence the extra pretty.

  “Cursed or not, it’s got a lot of bling.” Farway whistled at the sparklies; Saffron cocked his head at the sound. Imogen scooped the red panda into her lap before he could play pincushion with Farway’s calf again.

  “Over a thousand jewels,” she told her cousin. “It was worth about 405 pounds at the time. But I had Gram run the numbers, and he’s guessing with inflation and overall rarity it’s well over eighty-five million creds.”

  “Eighty-five?” Farway straightened and looked over at the Engineer. “Eighty-five mil?”

  Gram was doing three things at once: running pre-Grid numbers, flipping a T-shaped Tetris piece so it fit between two I-shaped ones, and shrugging a reply. “Easy. Could even inch up to one hundred if Lux fences it to the right buyer.”

  “A cut from that would buy us a real nice vacation.” Imogen nudged Farway. True to the agreement he’d struck with Lux, they got one free trip to any time they wanted for every heist they pulled. This was the Invictus’s life between the hair-chalk letters: thirty R&Rs for thirty snatches. India, Walmart, the Maldives, the Giza Plateau, China’s Bamboo Sea. Imogen couldn’t recall every place they’d been—her memory was going slippery before twenty, bad sign; she needed to remember to ask Priya for fish oil pills, if she could remember to remember to ask—which was why she’d decided to start keeping the ship’s logs. These trips were worth documenting, though lately their extra comings and goings had erred on the side of errands. Going back to the 1990s for a vintage replacement part to Gram’s busted NES console, picking up specialty food for Saffron, and… looking for Farway’s mother.