Chancellor Tyson leans forward and clasps his hands. “Mr. Creed, you don’t have to worry about anything. I simply wanted to check in on you this morning, since you had to stay here overnight. Thomas was visiting the campus this morning and decided to tag along. That’s all.”
General Anderson nods. “After the protests yesterday, I felt it would be a good idea to see for myself what kind of damage was done, and determine whether there are places where we can beef up security.” His expression turns dark. “I don’t see these kinds of Purist scare tactics going away anytime soon.”
His words make sense. Yet somehow, they don’t ring completely true. I wonder if he’s not telling me something. Why would General Anderson even care about me? I’m just the son of his deceased employee. Other than the fact that he’ll one day be my boss—if I’m accepted into the military, that is—he has no reason to be interested in me.
The door to my room slides open again. The chancellor and general look behind them, and I follow their gaze to the person standing in the doorway.
It’s a woman of medium build in a navy-blue military uniform, her iron-gray hair cut shorter than mine. My dad’s mom, Brigadier General Judith Creed. I sit up a bit straighter, surprised to see her. Growing up, my brother Shan and I usually only saw her a few times a year since she was frequently reassigned to different DTA military bases around the Federation. But in January, she transferred to New Denver to be closer to us. She said we needed a positive influence in our lives since Dad wasn’t here for us anymore. That may be true, but I suspect that her move had more to do with me wilding out last year.
On a good day, Grandma looks like she could cut you with her eyes. Today she’s positively livid. She marches in the room and stops just before the general and chancellor, fixing each of them with a stare that makes me feel nervous for them.
“What the hell are you two doing in here with my grandson?” she asks in a low voice.
Chancellor Tyson begins, “Now, don’t get upset, Judith. We’re just here to check on Bridger.”
“The hell you are. Is this some sort of interrogation? Because if this is, I should have been informed, in his mother’s absence. In fact, I should have been informed last night that he was put in here. But no, I had to find out this morning when one of your incompetent privates finally told me the truth.” By the time Grandma finishes, her cheeks are flushed. I haven’t seen her this mad in a long time. What could have possibly made her this angry?
“Well, under the circumstances, I’m sure you understand why we couldn’t contact extended family members,” Chancellor Tyson snaps.
Grandma looks at him like he’s lost his capacity for rational thought. “I’m well aware of what happened yesterday. And I’m also aware that parents were allowed to retrieve their children, so I don’t see why I wasn’t informed about my grandchild’s location. I could have picked up Shan and Bridger last night.”
When I hear my brother’s name mentioned, I feel a slight sense of shame. I hadn’t even thought to ask about him. “Where’s Shan now?”
“He’s in his quarters, along with all the other cadets who were not released to a parent or permanent guardian,” Chancellor Tyson says.
Grandma lets out a huff. “I’m their grandmother, and you know perfectly well that I’m qualified to take care of my grandsons while their mother is away.”
“Well, we don’t have her permission to release them to you.”
“Are you seriously going to play this game with me, Doran? Because we can take this to DTA headquarters if you like.”
Chancellor Tyson starts to stand, but General Anderson holds up a hand. “I think, given the circumstances, it would be fine for Judith to take the boys. What could it hurt?”
Nobody says anything for the longest few seconds of my life. I just sit there, hoping the chancellor will listen to reason. I need to get out of here.
Chancellor Tyson pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly. “Fine, you can take them with you, but only under the condition that you do not let them out of your sight. The last thing I want to deal with is an angry Morgan Creed when she returns.”
Grandma waves a dismissive hand and snorts. “Morgan is always angry. Let me deal with her.”
“Now that’s something I’d like to see,” General Anderson says with a smirk.
Grandma’s head whips around and she gives him a death glare. “My business is not for your amusement … sir.”
I’m gaping at them, open-mouthed, by this point. Even though Grandma is also a general, Anderson still outranks her. But she’s obviously not afraid of him.
General Anderson’s eyes narrow for a moment, then he lets out a laugh. “I’ve missed having you around here, Judith. Never a dull moment.”
Grandma shakes her head and comes over to my side. She sits awkwardly on the bed, careful not to touch me. “How are you feeling? Are you dizzy or anything?”
Before I can answer, Chancellor Tyson says, “I talked to his doc earlier and he assured me that Bridger is fine. He was only overwhelmed because of the protests. The doc feels that was understandable, considering the time trip that Bridger just returned from. And as a matter of fact, several more of his teammates had to visit the med center yesterday thanks to the upset.”
Unsettled that I feel so much better after hearing that, I focus on the white-tiled floor. “Did anybody else have to be sedated in front of everybody?”
“Well, no. But you have nothing to be ashamed about, Bridger. That is, unless there’s anything else you want to tell me?” Chancellor Tyson is still smiling, but that last question betrays the real reason for his visit. He’s trying to figure out if I’m about to lose my mind again.
I close my eyes. I think about how scared leaving the shuttle made me, the fear that nearly froze me in place upon hearing the gunshot. Then the complete shock at seeing someone who looked so much like Vika. It nearly did me in.
I can’t let them know that. Not any of them.
“Is that question really necessary?” Grandma snaps.
I glance at her and say, “It’s all right. I don’t mind answering.” Turning my attention to the chancellor and general, I continue, “I’m fine. It was like you said, just the shock of coming from a violent protest in the past to one in the present. Things like that shouldn’t be happening now.”
The chancellor and general both murmur in agreement. Chancellor Tyson checks his DataLink, stands, and says to the general, “I have a meeting in an hour, so we should go now.”
“Of course,” General Anderson replies.
“Take it easy for the rest of the weekend, Mr. Creed. I expect you back at the Academy Monday morning, ready to resume your studies,” the chancellor says.
He exits the room before Grandma can say anything else. The general starts to follow. Before he leaves, he pats me on the shoulder. “I think you’re doing just fine, Bridger. I’m sure your father would be proud of you.”
I get an unexpected lump in my throat. I’d give anything for my dad to be here now. Grandma holds her gaze steady on the general, but I see her swallow a few times.
“If you need anything, feel free to contact me,” the general says. “I always look out for my own.”
Then he pivots and quickly exits the room.
And I’m left wondering what he means by that. Could that be his way of saying I will be accepted into the DTA’s military division? If only I knew that were true.
Grandma breaks the silence. “Well, that was complete bullshit. But at least I can take you and Shan home with me for a few days.”
6
ALORA
FEBRUARY 11, 2147
It’s almost seven o’clock in the morning when a low chime sounds, right before my bedroom door slides open. I barely have time to shove the Mind Redeemer under my pillow before Mom walks in. “I’m sorry,” she says in a rush. “I didn’t realize you were already awake. I just wanted to check on you.”
“Yeah, I’m awake,” I say while trying to stifle
a yawn. I don’t tell her that I didn’t sleep much last night. How could I, when I have an illegal device in my possession with a note in my handwriting telling me to use it?
In fact, I’ve been sitting on my bed for over an hour, alternating between drawing in my sketch pad and trying to work up the nerve to use the Mind Redeemer. Every time I start to activate it, a little voice inside hisses at me to stop because it’s wrong.
But what if it isn’t wrong? I keep thinking, what if I’m supposed to use the Mind Redeemer? I’ve spent so much time wondering about all those years I can’t remember. Sure, I remember where I lived, and the appearance of the woman who kept me, but nothing about my actual life. Did I have friends? A boyfriend? Where did I go to school? What were my hopes and dreams? Then that stupid voice reminds me that there’s a good reason I can’t remember those things. Hello, traumatic childhood.
Mom pauses before gingerly perching on the edge of my bed. “Are you okay? You don’t look like you’ve slept much.”
Just great. I must look like utter crap this morning for her to say that. I’m still wearing the same blue jumpsuit I had on yesterday, only now it’s wrinkled. But at least I brushed my hair. That was a beast of a chore. Tossing and turning most of the night leaves more tangles than I care to deal with, especially since my hair reaches halfway down my back now.
“I’ll be all right. I guess it’s just weird, finally being here.” Not exactly the truth, but not exactly a lie either. I really can’t believe I’m in New Denver, back where I truly belong. But while it may have been my home once, it doesn’t feel that way anymore. How can I get that feeling back?
For a few uncomfortable moments, Mom doesn’t say anything. Then she spots my bright purple sketch pad on the bed next to me.
“Can I look?” she asks.
I shrug my shoulders. “Sure, but there’s nothing special in there.”
While she flips through the pages, I try not to cringe. I really hate letting anyone look at my art, but privacy was nonexistent while I was being rehabilitated in Chicago. If I wanted to draw, which was one of the few things that made me feel better, I had to let Lieutenant Rivera inspect my book. Because under no circumstances was I allowed to recreate any of the few memories that I still had from my captivity in Georgia.
Which is why, after dozens of pages of generic drawings from places I visited in Chicago, Mom stops on one page near the middle of the book—the sketch I was working on last night.
“Is this the house where you grew up?” she asks.
Cursing myself for being so stupid, I consider lying. But what’s the point? Mom knows everything about where I lived during my childhood. I’m not a great artist, but I’m pretty decent. “Yes,” I finally admit. “But please don’t worry. I can’t remember anything specific, only what it looks like from the outside.”
A crease appears between her eyebrows, then she sets the sketch pad back on the bed. “It’s a good drawing, Alora. All of them are really good. You should be proud of yourself.”
I’m not sure what I expected her to say, but that isn’t it. A light feeling engulfs me, and I find myself smiling.
Mom starts to say something, but then stops, as if she doesn’t know what to talk about now. Finally, she asks, “Are you hungry? I can fix you something to eat.”
My stomach growls as if on cue, and we both laugh. She leads me to the kitchen, and while I sit at the tiny black table, she sets about cooking. The kitchen is exactly like I remember it. Light green walls, gray countertops, black and silver appliances, and the table with three chairs resting in the corner. I wonder how lonely it’s been for Mom all these years, eating at that sad little table by herself, with only those two empty chairs for company.
Mom rummages through cabinets that appear to be stocked mostly with cans and sealed silver packages that contain Ready Meals. I would rather not eat any of those. They’re supposedly super-nutritious foods approved by the government, and they take just a minute to heat up, but they’re so bland.
Mumbling under her breath, she then checks the refrigerator. “I have a few eggs and some bacon left. Do you like those?”
“Yes, but I can have something else,” I blurt out. While I often ate fresh foods back in Chicago—a special privilege because I’m a Talent—most people don’t eat them except on special occasions. Prices for those items are outrageous, so only the wealthy individuals, people working in high-level positions for powerful government agencies, or Talents can afford to eat them on a regular basis.
“Nope, you get the good stuff today,” she replies.
A part of me wants to insist she just give me a meal bar or something, but I keep quiet. I’ve eaten several varieties of those, and they’re all disgusting. I guess I’d better get used to them. Just not right now.
A short while later, she sets a plate in front of me, along with a glass of dark-red juice. I immediately start shoveling the food into my mouth, even though the eggs and bacon are slightly burned. The eggs are edible, but the juice tastes bitter. I spit it back into the glass before I can stop myself.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you didn’t like pomegranate juice. That’s all I could get this month,” Mom says in a rush, frowning slightly while looking back in the direction of the refrigerator. “I have water, and I think there may be some green tea left.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “This is fine.” Honestly, I’d rather dump this stuff down the drain, but I know how much it must have cost her. On one of her visits to Chicago, she confessed that her salary was slashed when she could no longer perform her Time Bending duties and had to transfer to programming Sim Games.
Her DataLink emits two long beeps. She checks it and shakes her head. “Great. You’d think my boss would leave me alone this weekend.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I have to finish a project today. I thought I had until Monday, but he wants it by this afternoon. The History Alive rep wants to view it tomorrow.” Mom pinches the bridge of her nose. “I can’t believe it. Of all weekends to have to work.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? If I start now, I should be finished by early afternoon. Then I can take you out and show you around, maybe get you some new clothes. That is, if you want to.”
I offer her a genuine smile. “That sounds good. And I’ll try to take a nap, since I’m still kind of tired.”
After Mom retreats to her study to work, I clean up the kitchen, then head back to my room, where I immediately pull the Mind Redeemer out again and flop down on the bed. I keep turning it over in my hands. Should I use it? Should I put it away? Or should I tell Mom about it?
The note is definitely in my handwriting. I even copied the sentence myself, just to make sure. The swoops and swirls of each letter were identical. So, when did I write the note? And why did I put it in here?
I lie on the bed for a few more minutes, debating what to do, but I’m only wasting time. There’s only one way to find out for sure.
I turn the Mind Redeemer on. It lets out a low hum as I follow the prompts to set it for memory retrieval, then hold it in front of my forehead. My hand trembles as I look up at the bright green light. I could stop now and pretend I never found this device. I mean, it could seriously damage my brain, maybe even kill me. It would be smart to just get rid of it.
But then I’d always wonder about what was erased. The DTA said they just took traumatic memories of my tortured childhood. But what if that’s a lie? What if there’s more?
Before I can change my mind, I press the button that will restore my past. Burning pain shoots through my skull, and sweat beads on my face and neck. The pain lasts for a few seconds that feel like they last forever. And then it’s gone.
My arm feels like rubber as I lower the Mind Redeemer. It only takes a moment before the stolen memories start to surface. Slowly at first, like little ripples, then all at once. I remember Aunt Grace. She wasn’t a psychotic Purist; she was
my father’s sister. We lived together in an old plantation house that she and her late husband had converted into a bed and breakfast inn. That was in a small town in Georgia. And it wasn’t in the present; it was in the early twenty-first century. She raised me from the time Dad saved me from being taken by the DTA and left me with her, in the twenty-first century. She loved me and wanted to protect me.
I also remember Bridger, the young Time Bender who came back to prevent what was supposed to be my murder. He was the unconscious boy I saw back at the Academy yesterday, during the protest.
And then there is Vika, the half-sister I never knew. As a clone, she started to destabilize and wound up trying to murder me in 2013, but instead was killed by Bridger. We burned her body in order to fake my death in that time period so I could return here. Then there’s the fact that before she died, she told me her mother made our father pay for what he did. I have no idea what that means.
And there are others. Trevor. Sela. Kate. Naomi and Mr. Palmer. I close my eyes and press my fists against them. Oh my God, what he did to Naomi, and almost did to me. I curl up on the bed, feeling so sick. The memories are coming so fast now, I want them to stop. But I need to know more.
There was a cloned version of Bridger’s father, Leithan, who told us to take his body back to New Denver. How Bridger and I shifted together and brought the original Leithan’s body back to 2146. Even though he wasn’t a Space Bender, Bridger managed to coach me through shifting to the ruins of New Denver. I had to take the body there first, then shift to my bedroom, a place I knew I would visit at some point in the future, so I could stash the Mind Redeemer, all because Bridger was positive that the DTA would remove my memories. For some reason, he thought he would be executed or Nulled, but he wanted to make sure I would have a way to remember the truth.
I’m shivering and sweating by the time all my memories have returned. Because the very last thing I remember is what happened when I shifted back to Bridger. I had to leave him in Georgia since he can’t shift through space like me. We turned ourselves over to the DTA, hoping they would show mercy on us. But no, they separated us and took my memories. And just before they wiped my mind, they allowed me to see Mom. I shake my head in disbelief. Mom was crying. But she did nothing to stop the DTA.
On Through the Never Page 5