The interior is as plush as the exterior is shiny and sleek. I expect Sir Gregory to join me, but instead he closes the door, leaving me alone, and a moment later I feel the carriage’s powerful motor come to life.
I spend most of the trip staring out the window, my mind spinning questions and possibilities. But I’m no closer to understanding what’s going on when we finally stop nearly an hour later, outside a large, busy building. Etched into the stone above a series of doors are the words HOLYHEAD STATION. I know of Holyhead, and have passed through while riding the N-CAT on a few occasions, but have never disembarked here. The primary purpose of the station is not the N-CAT stop, however. Holyhead is New Cardiff’s main terminal for NorAm Rail—North American Railways.
NorAm holds the royal grant giving them exclusive rights to all long-distance ground transportation in North America. It’s the main way people travel around the continent. The only alternative would be if one were able to arrange a seat on a royal air transport, but only the wealthiest are able to do that. There’s a rumor that in other kingdoms and a few of the independent countries, air travel is easier to use. True or not, here in the British Empire it would never be an option for someone like me.
In fact, taking the NorAm is seldom done by those of my caste, since everyone knows there’s no reason for Eights to be moving around.
The carriage door opens and Sir Gregory peeks inside. “Hurry, please. We don’t have much time.”
Surrounded by the men in dark suits, Sir Gregory and I enter the packed station. Here and there I spot members of the lower castes wearing coveralls or the uniforms of servers, but most of the travelers appear to be at least Sixes. The last time I saw so many people dressed up was at Easter services, though the quality of the clothing at our local church does not compare to what I see before me.
We make our way across the main lobby and head toward the tunnel entrances that lead to the various platforms.
“My travel booklet—it’s in my bag,” I say, suddenly panicked.
Every citizen of the empire must have a travel book to board any vehicle going farther than a hundred miles. Even Eights are issued them.
Sir Gregory stops. “Quite right. Meant to give this to you as soon as we arrived.”
He pulls a book from his pocket and hands it to me. While it is a travel booklet, the cover is the green of caste Five. I check the information page inside and see my own picture staring back at me.
“I can’t use this,” I say. “It’s a forgery.”
“A forgery? Why would you think that?”
“This isn’t my caste level. I’m an Eight, not a Five. They’ll throw me in prison if I’m found with this.”
Like a patient uncle, he smiles and says in a calm voice, “Mr. Younger, when you accepted Lady Williams’s offer, it came with a reassignment to caste Five. You are part of the gentry now. If you don’t believe me, you’re more than welcome to check with the royal registry, but I can assure you, the change is official.”
I stare at him. “I don’t…but…”
“I know you have a lot of questions, but better to save them for later.”
As promised, there are no problems passing through the security checkpoint at the tunnel entrance. When Sir Gregory hands our tickets to a caste-Nine porter, the man’s eyebrows shoot up.
“I’ll be happy to help you, gentlemen,” he says with more deference than I expect. “Do you have any luggage?”
“It’s come ahead,” Sir Gregory tells him.
“Then if you’ll come this way.”
Up the tunnel we go, exiting onto platform number five. There, sitting on the tracks is a sleek, cross-country express. I’ve only seen these from afar as they race through the Shallows. Red, blue, and white strips run from one end to the other, while the metal covering the rest of the carriages has been buffed to the point where I can see my own reflection in it.
What surprises me, though, is that the porter doesn’t take us to the train, but instead leads us to a locked door at the end of the platform. There, he presses a button, and we wait a moment for the door to be unlocked remotely. Inside is not a room but a lift. We ride it to the very top.
When the door opens, the porter holds it in place but stays inside and says, “Go around to the other side and you’ll see it.”
“Thank you for your help,” Sir Gregory says as he hands the man a five-pound note.
Once we circle the elevator, our destination comes into view. Each surprise today seems to be topping the last, and this is no exception. In the center of the roof sits a Valor aircraft, its twin propellers churning the air.
Here I thought I was about to go on a long-distance train ride, and instead I’m flying for the very first time. My heart nearly stops every time the Valor tilts one way or the other in the air, and it’s several minutes before I’m able to overcome enough of my fear to look out the window.
Seeing New Cardiff from this angle is breathtaking. The parklands, the sun sparkling off the Pacific, the thousands of carriages on the roads all lie below me, and help me get a better idea of how nearly two million people could call my city home.
After about twenty minutes, we descend toward a more conventional airfield. Off to the side I see several large aircraft, but don’t allow myself to even think we’d be taking one of them. And yet, when we disembark, it’s to the nearest of these aircraft that Sir Gregory and our bodyguards escort me.
Only this morning I was sitting in my schoolroom, waiting with my fellow students and contemplating a casteless life, and now, here I am, sitting in a royal transport as it rises above New Cardiff, and am no longer an Eight but a Five.
“Take this,” Sir Gregory tells me, holding out a pair of white pills. “It’s a long trip and this will help you sleep.”
“I’m fine,” I say. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to miss any of this.
“Maybe so, but it’ll be morning when we arrive and you have a busy day ahead of you. Trust me, you’ll want to take these.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Suit yourself. But if you change your mind…” He places them on the cushion between us, and then folds his chair all the way back and closes his eyes.
As exciting as it is to be up in the air like this, the nighttime voyage leaves little for me to see except scattered lights below. At some point, despite not having taken the pills, I fall asleep.
The next thing I know, Sir Gregory is shaking my shoulder. “We’re here, Mr. Younger. Time to get up. You wouldn’t want to miss your first class.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“ONCE YOU’VE FINISHED training, your official title will be Personal Historian for the Upjohn Institute. But that’s still three months away, so until then, you’re only probationary trainees.”
We are in a theater-style classroom, in six rising rows of four students each. On the stage below, our lecturer is an older man who was introduced to us as Sir Wilfred Pell, head of institute security. He’s an imposing figure. Six and a half feet tall, at least, with a chest that stretches the fabric of his shirt and arms as thick as his legs. What hair he has on his head is shaved close, but is more than compensated for by his black-dyed Vandyke beard and moustache.
“As trainees, you have restrictions on where you can and cannot go on the grounds of Upjohn Hall. You will find a map detailing these locations in your guidelines manual. I suggest you commit these to memory, because if you are found where you’re not supposed to be, your participation in our program will be seriously jeopardized.” He pauses, staring up at us to emphasize his point. “On occasion, Upjohn Hall receives visitors from the outside. If you happen to come in contact with them and they ask what you do, you will tell them your job is to research and put together the family histories of institute contributors. If pushed, which you likely will not be, you should say you spend your days looking through dusty books and delicate parchments, and then report whoever has made this inquiry to the security bureau. We are all responsible for the
secrets of the institute. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” we reply in unison, though we’re no closer to understanding what these secrets are.
“Good,” he says. “Then I expect we’ll have no problems.”
He walks to the chairs along the back wall where several others are sitting, so I take advantage of the break to take my first good look at the other trainees. They all appear to be the same age as me. A few meet my gaze with looks of disdain that I’m very familiar with. They come from upper castes, Fives at least. And though I’m technically a Five now, I know they see the Eight in me. The ones who don’t look at me have an air about them that makes me put them in the same upper category. Am I the only one from the lower castes here?
“Good morning, everyone.”
I look back and see that Sir Gregory has stepped to the lectern.
“Good morning, sir,” several of us reply, though not quite as together as our previous response.
“It’s a pleasure to welcome you all to our summer 2014 session. Those of you who have been here for several days, we appreciate your patience while the rest of your classmates were brought in. Now that you’re all here, it’s time to begin.”
I realize I must’ve been the last one to arrive, as I barely had time to be shown my quarters before I was brought here.
“I imagine you’re all wondering what profession it is you’ve agreed to join,” Sir Gregory said.
Nods and a few murmurs of assent.
“Sir Wilfred is correct,” he says. “You will indeed be personal historians, but your heads will not be buried in dusty books and delicate parchments. As Rewinders, you will be getting your hands dirty.”
“Rewinders?” a girl in front of me asks. She wears her long hair in a style popular among the nobility and has the haughty manner to go with it. Which explains her asking the question. I’m wondering the same thing but would never have spoken up.
“It’s not the official title,” Sir Gregory says. “More of what we’ve come to call ourselves.”
I see disapproval on some of the faces of those sitting behind him, making me think not everyone uses the term.
“Where was I?” Sir Gregory thinks for a moment. “Right. As personal historians, you’ll be at the very heart of what we do here at the institute. Your work will take you places you never thought you could go. Never even thought possible.” He pauses. “Three calendar months from today, your training will end, but to be clear, not all of you will complete the program. Those who do not become Rewinders will be moved into support positions that, I can guarantee you, are also critical to the work we do.”
“Like a servant?” the question comes from the same girl as before, but is whispered so only a few of us hear it. As she says it, she shoots a look in my direction.
“Those of you who do complete the program will be assigned to a senior historian who will work with you for your first nine months, and then, as long as you’ve proven yourself, you’ll be on your own. The job is an all-consuming one and will become your life, and you will likely only see your fellow students in passing, if at all. For that reason, attachments during training are discouraged.
“Your instruction will occur through various methods, including daily individual sessions and occasional group meetings such as this. Let’s see.” He looks back at his colleagues. “Have I missed anything?”
The others shake their heads.
When Sir Gregory looks back at us, he says, “I know you have many questions. The best way to get answers is in a one-on-one meeting with your personal instructor, so if you will all rise.”
We stand.
“Single file, please, after me.”
When we leave the classroom, Sir Gregory leads us through the building and into a hallway with twelve numbered doors on either side.
“I’ll call out names followed by a number,” Sir Gregory says. “Once you hear your name, proceed to the corresponding room. This will be the room you use throughout training, so don’t forget your number.”
As I wait for my name to be called, I try to memorize the others’ names. The girl who all but called me a servant is Lidia Brewer. She’s sent to room 18, and I can’t help but hope I’m assigned a room nowhere near hers. When Sir Gregory says my name, though, the number he announces after it is 17.
When I enter the room, the first thing I notice is how white it is—walls, ceiling, floor—and then the three pieces of furniture that fill the space—a wooden table between two metal chairs. No one is present so I’m unsure which seat to take. I decide I want to see who comes into the room so I scoot around the table and claim my place.
It’s several minutes before the door finally opens, and a woman in a simple gray dress with a bag over her shoulder enters. She’s shorter than I am by nearly a foot, and if she weighs more than seven and a half stones I’d be shocked. Her hair is dark, almost black, and cut so that it barely touches the tops of her ears. What I notice most, though, is the aura of confidence that moves with her. It’s not something you see in the neighborhood where I grew up.
After closing the door, she takes the other seat. “Hello, Denny,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Marie Jennings. Welcome to the Upjohn Institute.”
“Thank you,” I say as we shake.
“I’m to be your personal instructor during your training,” she says. “And you are to be one of our potential Rewinders.”
“Yes, um, so what exactly is a Rewinder?”
“That’s the big question, isn’t it? What do you think?”
I’ve done nothing but try to figure that out since leaving the classroom, but am no closer to an answer so I shrug and shake my head.
“The definition’s very straightforward,” she says. “A Rewinder is a verifier of personal histories.”
“Okaaay,” I say, still not understanding.
“Had you heard of the Upjohn Institute before you came here?”
“Never.”
She sets her bag on the table and removes a leather-bound sheath. After opening it, she studies one of the papers inside and then looks up. “That’s right. You were an Eight before.” There’s no judgment in her voice, which surprises me, as she clearly comes from a higher caste.
“I feel like I’m still an Eight.”
“Give it time,” she says. “Pretty soon you won’t even think about what you are or where you came from. All right, let’s talk about the institute for a moment. It was established with a singular purpose. People come to us to trace and verify their family histories. To have a history certified by the Upjohn Institute means that no one can dispute your lineage. No one. Our results are accepted by the very top of society.”
By very top, she must mean the king. Just the thought of working at a job even remotely connected to the Crown is terrifying.
“So a Rewinder does these verifications?” I ask.
“Correct.”
“How, exactly?”
“Quite simple. You will observe and report.”
“Observe?”
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a wooden box—approximately five inches by seven and an inch thick—and holds it out to me. When I take it, I find it’s not nearly as heavy as I expected, and it’s not made of wood at all but some kind of metal designed to look like wood.
“Open it,” she says.
On the top is a flap that’s latched on the wide side. I try to open it but it doesn’t budge.
“Right here,” she says, touching a smooth section next to the latch. “Touch it with your right thumb.”
I do as she says and the latch pops open.
When I look at her, she says, “It’s been keyed to you.”
I start to ask, “How?” but my attention’s drawn to the display screen and buttons that were covered by the flap.
“What is this thing?”
She holds her hand out and I give it back to her. “The engineers call it a temporal transmitter, but it’s more commonly referred to as a Chas
er.” She sets it on the table.
I know temporal has something to do with time, but what would a temporal transmitter be? A radio clock?
Seeing my confusion, she says, “A little history. The Upjohn Institute received its royal charter from Queen Victoria in March of 1841.”
I blinked. Eighteen forty-one is an extremely important year in the history of the empire.
“Yes,” she says, noting my reaction. “That was only three months before she was killed. When King James III took the throne, he reconfirmed the charter, and the institute’s been here ever since, serving the upper castes of the empire.
“Until thirteen years ago, the only means we had for verifying lineages were old records. This was sufficient to a point but not always one hundred percent accurate. Records can be falsified, and whole histories can be changed to suit someone’s interests.
“In 1998, Lady Williams learned of a project being conducted at a small university in Virginia. She saw the potential immediately, so she made a sizable donation to the school in exchange for hiring Professor Clarke and moving his project to the institute. Under her guidance, the professor turned his research in a direction more useful for our needs. It took him a little over three years, but finally he did it.” She touches the Chaser.
“Did what?” I ask.
“Perhaps it’s time for a demonstration.” She picks up the Chaser. “Think of a date, sometime in the past couple years, one you know exactly where you were at a specific time.”
“A date? Why?”
“Please, just think of one.”
Without my even trying, a date comes to me.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“I only need to know three things. The date, the time, and the city or district you were in.”
“May 9th, 2009. Three p.m. The Shallows, New Cardiff.”
“All right. Now I’m going to ask you to stay in your chair no matter what happens. Can you do that?”
“Yes. Of course.”
She opens the Chaser’s lid and works her fingers across the buttons and screen. After a moment, she says, “I’ll be right back.”
Rewinder Page 3