Invictus

by Ryan Graudin

  Who was she to stop it?

  52

  … BUT CHOSE US

  THE DINING ROOM TABLE HAD BEEN reduced to plates of pizza crust. None of the black market cheese had been harmed by its two-time tumble to the floor. In fact, the entire incident seemed never to have happened. Far’s mother had reemerged from her bedroom with color in her cheeks, placing a new gift on the table before going around and taking everyone’s drink orders. The evening proceeded like most birthday celebrations in a McCarthy household: eating, laughter, the pause between dinner and dessert for embarrassing stories. Imogen shared the one about their childhood petting-zoo visit from Hades—Far had begun that day with a white shirt and went home in a half-eaten yellow rag thanks to a nervous rabbit and a goat kid, forever cementing his dislike for pint-sized mammals. Gram countered with Far’s more recent Sim triumphs. The tale of Far’s birth was told by Burg and both Empras in a rotation that was practically memorized.

  The dessert was gelato, chocolate with chocolate chips—Far’s favorite. Aunt Isolde brought out a whole tub of the stuff, but only made it two steps before her daughter cried “Wait! The sparklers!” and disappeared into the kitchen. Light frothed from Imogen’s hands, creating a trail of spilled sparks as she cometed back. Uncle Bert started off the first notes of “Happy Birthday,” and everyone sang.

  At the end his mother smiled. “Make a wish. Make it count.”

  Far wished he would count. He’d lived his entire life with the feeling it was a size too large. He looked around the table—Aunt Isolde scooping gelato into bowls as Uncle Bert and Aunt E passed them out, Burg holding his mother’s hand, Imogen testing Gram’s Rubik’s Cube, the plates that weren’t there—and felt the possibilities.

  could be could be could be

  This was his life.

  How would Far fill it?

  He wished he knew.

  Gifts came next. Uncle Bert, Aunt Isolde, Burg, and his mother had all pitched in to buy him a hoverbike—no more public transportation to school! Imogen bought him a pair of goggles to reduce windburn while he drove. Gram gave him credits toward a new datastream. Aunt E’s gift was a family heirloom, judging by his mother’s reaction. She reached for the tweed jacket as soon as he opened it.

  “This belonged to your great-great-grandfather, Farway,” she said. “He was a history professor at Oxford, back when Historians had to rely on books. Crux, it’s been ages since I’ve seen this.”

  Years, Far knew. Seventeen plus one, to be exact. Crashing into one’s own life was exactly that—a crash. As much as his mother and Aunt E had adjusted to themselves, casualties such as this jacket sprang up every once in a while. Identical childhoods, not enough inheritance to go around. He let his mother hold on to her memory, returning to the final gift. It had been wrapped with haste—no bow, no tag, small enough to fit into his palm twice-over.

  “Who’s this from?”

  “Open it.” More strange behavior from his mother… The only time she ever skirted subjects like that was when Far tried to bring up his father.

  He tore the paper, fast. Silver hinges, plush blue—the box looked like something from a jeweler. The kind of thing that would hold cuff links or a ring or a corneal implant upgrade. It was tech, Far discovered, but none he’d ever seen before. Clear and nearly invisible, the chip had the feel of a futuristic prototype.

  “What is th—”

  Far spoke. Light bloomed. Everyone at the table gasped.

  Gram moved to get a better look at the item. “This is a hologram platform? How?”

  Far didn’t know the answer to the second question, but the first was obvious. It was a hologram in front of him, displaying some kind of menu. Eight boxes sat in a neat gradient of colors, tagged 0 through VII. Above them sat a box with an altogether different label: TU FUI, EGO ERIS.

  What you are, I was. What I am, you will be.

  “Strange.” Imogen leaned forward in her seat. “That’s a gravestone phrase. The Romans used it to warn the living about death.”

  Death. Far didn’t think that was what it was referencing this time. He had no proof, nothing beyond a gut feeling—the very same longing he got every time he flew over the Colosseum, magnified. It was a twinge turned roar: WILL BE WILL BE WILL BE.

  “Tu fui, ego eris,” he repeated the words to let some of their feeling out.

  WILL BE WILL BE WILL BE

  The box opened. Out spilled ship’s logs for a vessel called the Invictus. Far read his name in the documents, along with Imogen’s and Gram’s and two others that felt on the brink of familiarity, as if his tongue had recited them many times before. Priya, Eliot, Priya, Eliot, Priya, Priya, Priya. He used to be the captain of a time machine, four months from now, and there were over thirty datastreams to prove it, time-stamped all over history: AD, BC, take your pick.

  Far cleared his throat. There seemed to be only one thing to do. “Start from the beginning.”

  EPILOGUE

  MAY 5, 2371 AD

  THE GROUND LEVEL OF Zone 2’s financial district proved a perilous place to walk. Its walkways swarmed with brokers, all of them edgy with stimulants and distracted by the stock numbers on their interfaces. Toes beware! Coffee cups, too! Eliot’s reflexes were being put to good use as she tracked Far through the fray. The cadet’s Recorder training brought out the chameleon in him, causing him to step at the same tempo as the surrounding suits. He was too easy to lose: no curls to draw in the eye, uniform melding into the gray of the walkway.

  Eliot—with her flash-leather moto jacket, her ice-blond wig—was the one who stood out in this swarm of corporate monochromes. Her eyebrows felt a few font sizes too large, though she had written them with a freer hand today. The color? Darkest Before Dawn. The message? Forget me not. She’d scripted the phrase rightside forward, for Far’s sake.

  All he had to do was pause, see her, read it. But Far kept forging along Via Novus. It was a roundabout route to the Academy. Especially strange, considering his final exam Sim was scheduled to start in a few hours. Eliot hadn’t planned on hacking this test, at least in the digital sense. Her scheduled interruption was of the manual variety. Or would be, if the boy would just stop moving. She could run to catch up, but so many lattes sloshing about made her nervous, especially with the invitation tucked in her non-universe pocket. Real ink bled, and though flash leather was expensive as Hades, a stain wouldn’t be the worst of it. Lux Julio wasn’t the sort of man who deigned to write things twice.

  Eliot slid her hands into her jacket pockets, thumb pressed against the envelope’s corner. It was quite sharp, for paper. Heavy, too: worth its weight in steals. She’d had to produce more than a bottle of port to gain the black market mogul’s trust this go-round.

  It seemed unlikely that Far had business in the Central World Bank, where gold letters swirled around a globe just as bright, assuring customers that their credits belonged nowhere else. Rotating glass doors swept in person after person, the odd droid. Far broke away from this flow before the grandiose steps, to the plaza lined with pollution scrub bushes and vendors.

  Curiosity, more than caution, was the reason Eliot hung back, pausing beside a crouched marble lion. She leaned against the statue and pondered this break in pattern. Of all the times she’d followed Far during the fortnight since his seventeenth birthday, he’d never stopped at a tea stand. The boy was energetic enough as it was; caffeine was apt to make his heart explode.

  “I’ll have a chai,” he told the vendor. “Extra hot, if you could.”

  Twenty-five credits. Far flinched when the price came up. Eliot knew this was because he couldn’t cover it, not even by half. She, on the other hand, had plenty of money to spend. After two snatch-and-grabs for Lux, she was sitting pretty, but what use were so many credits without friends to enjoy them with?

  Eliot stepped in, swiped her own palm over the scanner as payment. “It’s on me, this time.”

  The vendor began preparing the order—using spices that smelled of h
eaven and home, and made Eliot long for something she couldn’t quite remember. Story of her life—lives. But that forgetting was over, thanks to the boy beside her. Far was already reading Eliot’s eyebrows when she turned, his own high enough to get lost in would-be curls. It was the strangest thing: meeting someone for the first time once more. Even though there were a thousand places to begin, Eliot had no idea what to say.

  Hello. Again?

  “You! You saved us. Me and Gram and Imogen and—” Far’s voice cracked. His eyes darted to the tea stand, where chai was being poured. “This whole world. All of history.”

  None of these statements were true in their entirety. Early history had its holes: The morning of Far’s death was gone, along with the hours he’d visited pre-dating it. When Eliot tried to retrieve Berossus’s Babylonaica from Alexandria’s burning library for Lux-baiting purposes, the Fade’s tear forced her to land too late. She found the smoke impassable. The past steadied out, post–pivot point, for this was a different world. Every time after 95 AD remained as it was, unfaded. The Titanic sank; Las Vegas sparkled. CTMs landed without a hitch, collecting bees and seeds and history to revitalize Central time. All was as it should be.

  Except for Eliot. She’d been wiped blank again, with only streaks of Grid-protected memories to cling to: shooting at Far, watching seven subjects’ worth of footage, brainstorming ways to build a world. Beyond that? Her earliest recollection was from a month ago, standing in an empty field, pulse thrashing with terror her mind couldn’t register. The Fade. Why else would Eliot forget? Why else would she flee? According to Vera’s logs, she’d jumped from December 31, 95 AD, to a morning in 90 AD. A glance into her pocket universe confirmed she hadn’t done it alone. Gaius, too, had survived.

  She wasn’t sure the same could be claimed for Far, Gram, Priya, and Imogen. They were alive, yes, but they’d also been lost. Eliot’s comm link with the Invictus kept SEARCHING FOR CONNECTION… and saved was a word she didn’t quite know how to define. If you never were, were you ever? Could people be dead if their existence was erased?

  “I was there,” Eliot said, partly to reassure herself. “From what I can remember, it was a team effort. The chip was Priya’s idea. Imogen kept ship’s logs. Gram figured out how to end the countersignature, and you…”

  “Died?” Far didn’t seem to mind that the vendor was within earshot, placing the steaming hotmug into the pickup window. “Yeah, I figured. Pretty hashing noble of me, don’t you think?”

  So she did. The sentiment became a lump in Eliot’s throat, swallowed back. Grief didn’t feel right with Far standing here. The sadness didn’t feel wrong, either. Just… misplaced.

  A few extra credits swiped as tip and Eliot passed the hotmug to Far. “At least your humility came through unscathed.”

  “As did your humor. Your fashion sense, though…” He squinted at her jacket, which translated the morning light into something psychedelic, colors stretching to the edge of expected. “Methinks you took some cues from Imogen.”

  “Girl’s a bright influence.” Is, was. Same, different. Flesh, ghost…

  Far’s laugh brought Eliot to the land of the living, where the plaza stones became unshakeable beneath her feet. This was a memory she would not forget: bantering beside a tea stand, breathing in factory spice and sky smog. She slipped her hand back into her pocket, where the envelope was.

  “Priya wanted the chip to reach you on your seventeenth birthday, before your final exam Sim. I’ve been keeping tabs on you for a few weeks now, waiting for the right moment—”

  “You winked at me on the hoverbus!” Far interrupted. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Explaining was the chip’s job. I’m here for the fallout.” With all jump systems functioning, she had everywhere else to go. A multiverse awaited: Choose a number, lotto random, and that universe was within reach. But this world—with its solid ground, its booming black market trade, its many McCarthys—was Eliot’s now. She’d put down roots here, or vice versa. They were already a few weeks old, growing as deep as she could ever remember.

  “The chip didn’t explain everything. My”—the boy paused—“our father. What happened to him?”

  “Gaius lived his life.” Again, it was hard to choose a tense, but for happier reasons. Eliot still checked in on her—their—father from time to time, visits that eased her guilt for leaving him in 96 AD with nothing but some coins and a toga sewn from sheets. She’d worried for nothing, though. Said garment had fetched him a small fortune. “Long and free.”

  “What about the Multiverse Bureau?” Far’s face tightened, until she could see every muscle in it. “Will their agent check in on us again?”

  Again? Agent Ackerman must’ve turned up during the lost moments. What a hazing cucurbita… “Anything’s possible, though I wouldn’t fret over it. Your countersignature emissions scan comes up same as mine. Clear. Nothing particularly special or apocalypse-inducing about either of us.”

  “I can live with that.” Far only became self-aware of his pun until after the fact—evidenced by his wince. “So what’s this fallout you referenced?”

  Eliot realized she’d used the wrong word. Fallout? No, it was more of a catching…. It was convincing Lux to allow the use of the fourth, unnamed TM in his fleet. It was the red panda cub, the Tetris cartridge, and the satchel of karha spice— welcome-home gifts Eliot collected and placed in their respective bunks. It was the envelope she pulled from her pocket.

  Far stared at the stationery. “Is that…”

  “This is your life, Farway Gaius McCarthy. I’m not going to bust into your final exam Sim as Marie Antoinette—”

  “Wait, what?” He must not have watched that part.

  “I got you thrown out of the Academy, which caught Lux Julio’s eye, which landed you on the Invictus. All that to say, fate’s in your court this time. You can soup up on chai and go crush that exam, or you can accept this invitation.”

  “The tea isn’t for me,” Far said, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did. He considered the envelope another second before reaching for it. “A life worth dying for has got to be a life worth living, right?”

  “It won’t be the exact same setup,” Eliot warned. “I’ve already signed a contract with Lux. Think you can handle being co-captain?”

  “Only time will tell.” The boy’s expression bordered on wicked; he tucked the paper into his uniform pocket. “I assume the invitation extends to the rest of the crew? Can’t fly a TM without an Engineer, and Gram and Imogen are a package deal as of a week ago. Who knew talk of rodents’ digestive anatomy and past-life kissing would lead to… well… kissing?”

  “Assemble the dream team.” Eliot’s smile felt much like her sadness. It amazed her, that joy and sorrow could be so intertwined. Sweet to the bitter. This start wasn’t fresh, but perhaps she was better for it. “Eleven o’clock tonight. The Forum. Zone One.”

  A winking light. The chai in Far’s hands took on a whole new meaning when Eliot spotted the gold headphones bobbing through the crowd. Of course Priya was headed toward the tea stand. Ships of Theseus in the night, moments from colliding.

  Eliot wasn’t about to get between them.

  “Tonight,” she said again, before stepping back into the current of financiers. There was no need for a farewell, not when she and Far would meet again in a matter of hours. “The Invictus is waiting.”

  The boy waiting beside Priya’s tea stand was not a regular. A grin as bold as his would be memorable any morning of the week, pre-caffeine or post-. So why, oh why, did it feel so familiar? Why did her heart do a tiny cartwheel inside her chest when their gazes locked? She’d never been one to swoon, especially when it came to Corps cadets. The uniform alone should have been grounds for dismissal: Strike one, he’s out.

  Strike two. He was… waiting for her? It seemed this way, when he held out the hotmug. Priya regarded it, skeptical. His grin didn’t waver. It held more than just straight teeth and confiden
ce—something she couldn’t name, but echoed inside her anyway, a song apart from the one she was listening to. She removed her rip-off BeatBix and met his eyes, dark enough to see constellations in.

  “Do I know you?”

  “In a manner of speaking? No. I’m Farway McCarthy. Far for short.”

  Priya had seen the name around—inscribed on a 24-karat plaque, popping up on med-droid reports, referenced in Edwin Marin’s faculty memos. By nature of the Academy’s size and the lack of Medic-to-cadet contact, this was the first time she’d met the boy himself.

  Wasn’t it?

  She gestured at the tea in Far’s hand. “What’s this?”

  “Chai. For you.”

  “I don’t date cadets.” There wasn’t much heart in the rejection, since her own kept flip-flopping. “Even ones who wait at my favorite tea stand with my favorite drink. Whoever tipped you off was ill-informed.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is so so.”

  Far’s smile grew past his lips, until it charged the air about him. Priya could think of at least a dozen songs with a similar feel, half of them about L-O-V-E. This made her grip her headphones by their backward BB logos, intent on placing them back over her ears. Her Medic shift was starting soon, and she didn’t have time for a time traveler—

  “It was you, Priya.”

  Pause. One headphone on: half song, half stun. She hadn’t told Far her name, yet she must have, because it sounded so right when he said it, earnest enough to believe.

  “You told me to find you,” Far went on. “I know it sounds like some time traveler’s pickup line, but it’s the honest-to-Crux truth. I’ve got the datastream footage to prove it. You said to bring you a mug of chai from the tea stand on Via Novus. You told me to give us a chance, so that’s what I’m doing. If the cadet part’s a deal breaker, it shouldn’t be. I’m about to quit the Academy.”

  “When?”

  “I was just about to go over there—”