by Megan Crewe
He’s not just a lackey in this rebel group either. He deserves every bit of the respect he’s trying to earn. Sick and tired and exhausted—but nothing’s stopped him from working toward their cause.
From keeping his promise to protect me.
It wasn’t right, how he treated me at first. But he hasn’t only been thinking of his mission. The risks he took, the danger he put himself in just an hour ago—that was for me. So I could decide whether I wanted to go with him. So the Enforcers wouldn’t hurt me the way they’d already hurt him. Watching his sleeping form, I feel a little tug inside, as if whatever injury he did to me has been stitched back together with a thread of forgiveness.
As the minutes slip by, the lights in the ceiling dim. I pull my knees in toward my chest and clasp my hands in front of them. My stomach pangs, and my ankle pulses with a muted ache, but I ignore both. After a while, my own eyelids drift down. I jerk them up. Someone has to keep watch.
I get up and look through the cabinets again. Drink some more of the greenish water that smooths the jitters from my nerves. Prod the other packets, and decide I’m not quite curious enough yet to risk opening one.
In the second cabinet, the one I hadn’t checked before, there are bundles of folded Traveler clothes, packets of the alien bandages, and other bits and pieces I don’t recognize. I pull out one of the shirts, holding it to myself. About the right size. If we’re going a few centuries into America’s past, this’ll probably look better than my modern T-shirt. I pull it over my head.
When I sit back by the bunks, I pick up my purse and reach for the bracelet instinctively. My fingers graze the folded paper I stuck inside for note-taking. Didn’t need to use it after all.
Maybe it can serve another purpose. One more stop, and then hopefully I can go back to save Noam. I need to figure out what to write to him; what he’d believe.
I pull out the pen and the paper, setting the latter on the floor. Noam, I write. The m wobbles. I stop, staring at the blank page, and bite the end of the pen. When you get home, Darryl’s going to call you. He’s going to sound upset, but it’s just a joke. A prank he’s pulling on you.
Is that enough? If I try to explain how I know this, I’ll probably just end up sounding sketchy.
I’m composing the next sentence in my head when footsteps thud outside the door.
26.
The lights overhead flash brighter as I jump up. “Win,” I whisper, grasping his shoulder. “Win!”
Win flinches awake, rolling off the bunk onto his feet. As he teeters, swiping at his eyes, I shove my partly written note into my purse and reach for the time cloth. And the inner door hisses open.
The guy who strides in comes to a halt just inside, the door wisping shut behind him. His eyebrows rise. The comment he makes in Kemyate sounds amused. I pause, still crouched by the cloth on the floor. Win’s tensed, but he’s just glowering at the guy, his expression more pained than frightened.
Do they know each other? The guy doesn’t look much older than Win. He’s a couple inches taller, well built, with a sheen of black hair, and he’s wearing similar Traveler clothes.
“What are you doing here?” Win asks, his voice as stiff as his posture.
“Thlo set the safe house to send a signal if someone used it during this time,” the guy replies, following the switch to English with a nearly perfect American accent. At the mention of that familiar name, my frantic heartbeat slows to something closer to its usual pace. “She asked me to check in.” He chuckles, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin. “So you managed to get yourself into trouble even in the twenty-first century, Darwin?”
Darwin? Oh. Win—Darwin. Our code name conversation comes back to me. “Galápagos,” I murmur, and the newcomer’s gaze flicks to me. His eyes narrow, and the jaunty tone vanishes. He snaps out a question, back in their shared language.
Win’s flushed. “She is Skylar,” he says. He covers a sneeze, and moves a little in front of me as if to shield me. “And it’s thanks to her I’ve been doing your job for you, Jule.”
The guy—Jule—launches into what sounds like the start of a rant, throwing his arm in the air. Win’s hands clench at his sides. He cuts Jule off before the other guy’s gotten very far.
“If you want to argue about it, speak in English so she knows what’s going on too,” he says. “I’m not talking about it otherwise.”
Jule’s eyes flash, and in that second he looks almost as dangerous as Kurra. Then he sighs and steps over to lean against the bunks, folding his arms across his chest.
“How much have you told her?”
“She knows everything,” Win says. “She needed to.”
“I’m not going to give away your secrets,” I say. Jule’s gaze darts to me and back to Win.
“I think you’d better explain this directly to Thlo,” he says. He reaches behind him to a leather bag a little larger than Win’s satchel and pulls out a time cloth of his own.
Win’s shaking his head. “You don’t get it. We’ve tracked down almost every part of the weapon, Jule. We’ve only got one more place to go.”
“Sure you do,” Jule says. “You’ve managed to track down the meaning of Jeanant’s messages with some Earthling girl while the rest of us are still deciphering the first detail. I knew growing up with that rotter family of yours left you soft-brained, but hell. Did you sniff too much of your dad’s paint fumes before you left?”
“No, and I can think a lot better than some coaster who lets his grandfather’s accomplishments do his work for him,” Win retorts. “Look. What do you think this is?”
He pulls one of Jeanant’s plastic slabs from his satchel, holding it close enough for Jule to read the characters etched along it. When Jule reaches for it, he jerks it back. “Just look.”
Jule’s expression transforms from skeptical to startled in a way I find immensely gratifying after how snarky he’s been with Win. I straighten up as he steps closer.
“You really did it,” Jule says in a low voice, and laughs. “How the hell . . .”
“It was Skylar,” Win says, motioning to me. “You know we talked in training about how there were probably Earthlings sensitive enough to be disturbed by the shifts—she’s one of them. She figured out exactly where Jeanant went in France, then helped me follow the signs after that. It’s because of her we have almost everything we need, and we know where to go next, where to get the rest, so we can finish the mission and go home.”
“It was still stupid, Win,” Jule says. “You know the rules are there for a reason. We have to bring this to Thlo. She’s the one who should decide.”
“So the rules are more important to you than getting the weapon?” I ask.
He looks at me, a little more thoughtful this time, and his mouth quirks into half a smile. “It’s nothing personal, Earthling. Most of us know there’s a good reason to follow the safety precautions.” He hesitates, and his gaze slides to Win again. His smile disappears. “Unless you were planning on following the standard protocol for data compromisation.”
Standard protocol? Win looks puzzled for all of a second before his golden-brown skin goes greenish. “Of course not!” he bites out.
“What’s—” I start to ask, and then it hits me. Data compromisation. It’s a local. He saw us. Kurra’s blast. My stomach flips over. “Win . . .”
“Before anyone hurts you, they’d have to kill me first,” Win says, more threatening than I’ve ever heard him, but his arm trembles where he’s clutching the plastic slab. Abruptly, I remember the way he evaded the subject of contacting the others, letting them know what we were doing, when I brought it up before. I thought the excuses were pride, his need to prove himself. But if standard protocol is eliminating any Earthling who sees a Traveler in action . . . maybe he wasn’t avoiding the subject because his reasons not to contact them were selfish. Maybe he just d
idn’t want to tell me that he was afraid of what the others might want to do to me, if they knew.
I touch Win’s back, wanting to express somehow that I’m with him.
Jule rolls his eyes, but his discomfort shows in the dampening of his voice. “I’m not saying I think that’s a good plan.”
“And Thlo?” Win says. “What would she think?”
“I’m pretty sure she’s smart enough to come up with a few alternatives,” Jule replies, but I don’t find his tone completely convincing.
Apparently Win doesn’t either. “I can make sure of that if we go get the rest of the weapon first. Once we have everything, there’s no mission to jeopardize.”
“I can’t let you do that,” Jule says. “You expect me to go back to Thlo and tell her I let you run off with some Earthling? Or to lie to her?”
“It’s for Thlo too,” I say. “The Enforcers—they’ve managed to track our time cloth. If we jump to wherever Thlo and the others are, we’ll be leading the Enforcers straight to them.”
“Then we’ll go in mine,” Jule says, still addressing Win.
“It’ll only hold two,” Win says. “We can’t just leave Skylar here.”
“It’s as safe a place as any, for her and us. As long as . . . She’s from the twenty-first? You did check what she’s carrying, right?”
“What?”
Jule turns to me. “What’s in that purse?”
I inch back, my hands tightening around it. “Nothing important.”
“Right.” He steps forward as if to take it, and Win shoves in front of him. Jule raises his arm to elbow Win to the side. Win’s braced himself for a fight, but Jule is bigger, and probably stronger, and Win was half dead a couple hours ago.
“Stop it!” I say, and thrust my purse toward Jule. He backs off of Win immediately, accepting the purse with surprising grace.
“Thank you,” he says. Then he fishes inside, pulls out my phone, and tosses it on the floor.
“Hey!” I cry, but he’s already smashing it under his heel. He gives the screen a few good stomps, until the glass is splintered and the shell cracked, the insides spilling out. Then he scoops it up and shoves the mangled pieces through what looked like a vent low in the wall. There’s an electric sizzle. I guess I’m never seeing that phone again.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Win protests.
“If you want her to stay alive, you should have,” Jule says, wiping his hands together and handing my purse back to me. “Don’t you know what these twenty-first-century types are like? Calls and texts and photos and video—who knows what she’s already recorded that’d get us in trouble?”
It hadn’t occurred to me to try, but I realize he’s right. I kept telling Win it didn’t matter what I knew because no one would believe me. But if I had pictures, video footage, hard evidence—that could be another story.
I glance at the vent, my fingers twitching. But if giving up my phone will convince the rest of Win’s group I’m safe, I can deal.
“All right,” Jule says. “Let’s go.”
“We’re not—” Win starts, and the wail of a siren cuts him off.
I wince as it blares through the room again. The lights overhead flash yellow. Win ducks past me to grab the time cloth, tugging free the thread that was charging it.
“Not so safe,” he says to Jule. “Skylar told you, they’ve been tracing us.” He hesitates. “We have to go. But we could switch cloths. You could make a few jumps in ours, lead the Enforcers on a chase, while Skylar and I go get the rest of the weapon, and then we can all meet back at the agreed spot.”
For a second, Jule looks as though he’s considering it. But then that second becomes two, and three, and his face hardens. I can see his answer there. Win touches my arm.
“Forget it,” he says. He rushes past Jule to the entrance, and I dash after him. Jule spins around, grabbing at Win as the door gasps open. He’s not fast enough. We flee up the steps. Win scrabbles at the outer door and it swings open too. I slam it back in Jule’s face before racing after Win into the street.
Win lists to one side, and then motions me across a square with a small, silent fountain. We’ve almost reached the shadows of the carriage house on the other side, Jule’s footsteps thundering after us, when Kurra stalks around the side of the building.
Win skids to a stop, swaying, as her weapon jerks up. He whips out the time cloth. There’s a shout behind us—Jule?—and Kurra’s head twitches to the left, and, without thinking, just reacting on panic, I swing my purse at her gun hand with as much force as I can manage.
It knocks the blaster off-target. But Kurra’s other hand snatches at the purse strap. She yanks me toward her. Win pulls the cloth around us as I yank back, and the strap snaps.
“No!” My bracelet—Noam’s beads—
The purse disappears through the flaps. I almost lunge after it, but Win’s arm is around me, with a rasp in my ear. “Skylar.”
I catch myself just before I stumble out. The cloth lurches, and the night, the rain-slick cobblestones, Jule, and Kurra all jolt away.
27.
Win coughs, loud enough that I can hear him over the shrieking of the air outside. He stumbles when we touch down, catching himself against the wall of the time-cloth tent. The daylight streaking in from outside reveals a feverish flush that’s risen under his skin. He clears his throat.
The loss of the purse—and my bracelet—is still wrenching through me, but my concern overwhelms it.
“Are you okay?” I ask. What if the little sleep he got wasn’t enough? What if the confrontation with Jule and that short run were too much for him? He might be bleeding again, inside, and I’d never know.
Win sniffs, and says, “I’ll be all right. It’s mostly just the cold now. It was fascinating for a moment, but I think I’m ready for it to be over.”
I have to catch my smile at the flippant irritation in his voice. Okay, so he’s not dying. “Good luck with that,” I say. “It’ll probably be at least a week before it’s gone.”
He looks so stricken, I can’t help laughing. So much for scientific curiosity.
“If Earthlings can survive that long, I suppose I can too,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving up. He leans forward, peering beyond the cloth. We’re on a grassy meadow, glinting modern buildings peeking over the tops of the nearby trees. “I didn’t have time to put much thought into our destination. I suppose we should find that battle before Kurra catches up with us again.”
“That guy, Jule, do you think he’s going to come after us?”
“He can’t,” Win says brightly. “He has no idea where we’re going. And no one in our group has tracing tech like the Enforcers do. We won’t see him again unless we want to.”
I guess there are some benefits to a lack of supplies. Jule doesn’t strike the same terror in me that Kurra does, but he wasn’t exactly pleasant to be around either.
“Thanks,” I say. “For . . . defending me with him.”
Win glances at me. “You’re just as much a part of this mission as the rest of us now,” he says. “You deserve to be able to see it through. And . . . I meant what I said to him. No one is going to hurt you, no matter what I have to do.”
Though his hand quivers where he’s holding it by the data panel, there’s a determined light in his eyes. He’s sick, and he’s obviously still weak, but in that moment I have no doubt he’ll get us through this. An odd warmth spreads through my chest.
“Thanks,” I say again. It doesn’t seem like enough, but I can’t think of any other words that are right. I touch the back of his shoulder, gently, like I did when he shielded me from Jule. A soft smile touches his lips. He reaches out to rest his hand on my shoulder in return. This time I have no urge to flinch away.
“All we have to do is pull this last bit off, and you’ll be safe for good
,” he says. He turns back to the display. “Americans and Natives, British fort, fallen trees, right?”
“Yep,” I say. “And somewhere in the northeast.”
He flicks through the glowing characters. “Ah,” he says after a bit, with a noise of approval. “There we go. The Battle of Fallen Timbers. Ohio, near Fort Miamis. August 20, 1794 AD.”
When we step out into the Ohio forest, the blanket of humid heat that washes over us is a shock. It fills my lungs and congeals against my skin. Only pale sunlight drifts through the bright green foliage of the trees. As we look around, a sluggish breeze passes over us, not lively enough to cool the sweat already beading on my skin. I long to peel off the Traveler shirt I put on over my own, but I’m sure I’ll look out of place in my T-shirt.
“The Native soldiers will engage with the Americans in about an hour,” Win says, repeating the information the cloth’s display gave him. “That should give us time to locate the spot Jeanant meant for us to find before ‘blood is spilled where the trees were laid low.’ The fallen trees are over that way”—he waves—“at the edge of a river. And that way”—another wave—“is Fort Miamis. Where the Natives will run when they’re overwhelmed, and be refused shelter.”
It’s not like the other periods Jeanant picked. In France, in Vietnam, the underdog was going to win, drive back the people trying to oppress them. This battle . . . The Natives are going to be beaten, and beaten again and again all across the country, until they give up their claim to almost all the land they once considered home.
Maybe Jeanant wanted to remind his followers of that too. That standing up to a greater power isn’t always easy, and you don’t always win.
The thought casts a gloom over my spirits. I hug myself despite the heat. “Which way do you think we should go?”
“The message says, ‘Follow the path of anger.’ Sounds like a lot of people around here are going to be angry.” Win frowns. “Maybe the fort? I’d be pretty upset if my allies turned their backs on me.”