by Walker, Rysa
“You’re not addicted yet,” she continues, in that same prim tone, “and you’ll need to quit about six months before you hit item twenty-nine on Saul’s to-do list, anyway."
“There are only twenty-six items.”
“And there were twenty-two commandments when our own personal Moses jotted them down initially, right? I’ve seen the list. I know what’s missing. I know he’ll add more.” She stops, looking perturbed. “Come to think of it, I can’t guarantee that it will even be number twenty-nine. He and Simon have been juggling things around pretty much at will lately. But that task will most definitely have a star beside it, and a specific day you need to do it.”
“They all have specific dates. That’s part of the travel coordinates on the key.”
“No, dummy. I mean a specific day for you.” She grabs the diary on the nightstand with her left hand, and I get a closer look at her medallion. It’s not strapped to her arm, as I first assumed. It’s inside her arm—an implant. The skin around it is raised and slightly puckered.
It’s horrible. I start to ask her about it, but then I catch a glimpse of my own unmarked arm. If that thing is in my future, do I want the details?
No. I do not.
She taps the calendar app on the diary. “You’ll take care of task twenty-nine when you are seventeen years, ninety-two days old. Day 811. Around nine p.m.” A sly grin sneaks across her face. “And it’s a task you’ll enjoy quite a bit, as long as you don’t follow Saul’s exact orders.”
“It’s Tate, isn’t it? I go to him to get pregnant, instead of this guy Saul wants. Moehler. The historian in Copenhagen.”
Older-Me smiles. “Yes. That was a little twist I added. Saul might consider it a mistake, but it definitely wasn’t. And it served him right, after—” She stops abruptly, and her eyes drift over to the pillow next to me, where Giz is chewing on the edge of the quilt. “No, I can’t tell you about that. You’ll find out on your own.”
She reaches down to pick up a stuffed bear that’s partly under the bed. Saul gave it to me, so it’s not something I’m exactly attached to. But it’s still a little disconcerting to see her rip at the seam in its leg and start pulling out bits of the stuffing.
I decide not to mention the systematic destruction of the bear, mostly because I think it would be a bad idea to get her off topic. “This whole secrets thing is infuriating, you know. Surely you can tell me something.”
She thinks about that for a moment. Then she gives me a tiny smile as she shakes her head and pulls her fingers across her lips with a zipping motion. “No spoilers.”
I’m really tempted to whack her with the mortar. Why wake me up if all she has to offer are cryptic bullshit warnings?
Gizmo is getting braver now. He inches forward and sniffs her hand, patting at the diary in her lap with one oversized paw. He’s a German shepherd and Chow mix, and June says he’s going to be huge if he keeps growing at this rate. He may have looked like a Gizmo as a Christmas gift, but he’s starting to resemble a lion now. I grab his brown-and-gold ruff and tug him back, shaking him a little the way he likes when we play-fight. As I expected, he forgets all about Other-Me and rolls over on his back, with my wrist in his mouth, gnawing and growling.
Older-Me watches us play for a moment, frowning. Then she does that weird head-shake again, as she keeps right on pulling the fluff out of the bear. I wait to see if she’s going to say something else, but she seems to be on another planet.
“So…?” I prompt. “Did you just stop by to scare the hell out of me and remind me to use sunscreen and conditioner?”
That pulls her out of the little trance, although her hands keep right on going with the bear. “No, smart ass. I came to give you some advice. You’re making yourself—no, you’re making us—much too dispensable. Enough of this Brother Cyrus is the font of all miracles crap. Veer off his damned script when you’re at these temple events. Take some credit for yourself. And listen to June, for God’s sake! What she said about all the things you’re changing, the so-called mistakes they have you correcting? June is right. You’re producing double memories. It may not seem like a huge deal right now, but the closer you get to me…to this age? The impact of all those changes will mushroom. June isn’t just predicting. She’s seen it. Those things Simon and Saul call mistakes? They make you who you are. You can’t keep tugging at those threads.”
I glance down at the bear, whose threads and innards she’s been tugging. One leg is now a hollow sleeve and he’s lost a bit of weight around the middle, too. The parallel between what her hands are doing and what she’s saying seems to be lost on her, however.
Everything she’s just said is an echo of what June tells me each chance she gets. I don’t entirely trust June, but I trust her far more than the others around here. I think June might actually have my best interests at heart…well, except for her concern that I make sure she continues to exist. But hey, I kind of get that.
“And keep in mind,” Older-Me continues, “that Saul and Simon don’t know everything about what I did. They don’t know all of my…mistakes. There are already a few that you’ve missed, and neither of us are going to like the end result if this keeps up.”
She pulls a sheet of paper out of her pocket and unfolds it.
“I think this is all of them. Well, all of the major ones. It’s always kind of hard to tell when something small becomes important.”
There are maybe twenty items on the list she hands me, several of them starred. Some have Day 1763 or Day 2102 or whatever beside them. Some of them include names. And quite a few of them include details that I really don’t want to see.
One in particular catches my eye, because I’ve met him, and also his father. “You’re kidding me? The little guy who came over on the boat last week? He's a baby!”
Okay, not a baby exactly, and I guess it was only last week from my perspective. Simon finally convinced the elder Kiernan Dunne to bring his family over from Ireland. I helped, mostly by spending a few minutes talking to the woman, Cliona. She seemed a little in awe of me, probably because Simon was laying on the Sister Prudence stuff really thick. I told Cliona about the Farm up near Chicago—one of the five we have in the US now—and how there was plenty of work for them, and plenty of food. The kid clutching her skirts couldn’t have been much more than four, a dark-eyed little guy who didn’t say much. He didn’t look like he’d been eating much lately either.
“A baby?” Older-Me rolls her eyes. “Do you know how stupid that sounds? By all means, jump forward to when he's eighty if that's what turns you on. You saw him back at the Cyrus Teed resurrection, didn’t you? He’s growing up nicely.”
Her words send a cold chill through me—a chill that has nothing to do with the Dunne family and everything to do with Cyrus Teed’s so-called resurrection. That jump was the fifth task on my List, one of the starred items that Saul said I had to do exactly the way I did before, or we’d mess everything up. So I followed the script to the letter. I let Saul paint me with the stupid glow paint, I even smiled up at the rafters like I was happy to be standing behind the tub where that old coot was slowly rotting.
The Kiernan kid was there when it happened, near the back of the barn. He’d been hanging out earlier with a younger version of Simon and this electrical engineer we recruited. Kiernan helped them set up the lighting so that I’d look all ethereal and otherworldly.
I saw Kiernan’s face after those people slit their throats to show their devotion to Cyrus. The boy’s mouth hung open and he just stared at the bodies, as huge tears rolled down his cheeks. Seeing him there, seeing someone else looking the way I felt—I think that’s the only reason I was able to hold it together until I got out of there.
Saul tells me that fewer people died this time, but I’m pretty sure he’s lying. I get these flashes of double memory every now and then. I think it happened almost the exact same way last time around.
And the flashes I get? They’re only double memories. I’m now
convinced that Saul lied about me doing things over and over, spinning off multiple timelines trying to get things right. That has me wondering what else he might be lying about.
“I’m not interested in Kiernan Dunne,” I tell her. “He’s got bad taste in friends.”
I can tell from her expression that she agrees with me on that point, but she taps one of the starred dates on her little addendum anyway. “All I’m saying is this thing with Tate doesn’t last forever. I probably shouldn’t even tell you that. Kiernan and I spent a lot of time together, if you get my drift. He’s not a bad guy…and unlike Tate, he’ll be around when you’re lonely. If you don’t add Kiernan to your little to-do list, there are going to be more double memories than our head can handle. And I think you’ll regret it.”
I don’t think she really means the last bit as a threat, but it still annoys me. “I don't have to do everything—or everyone—that you did. Saul said that was the whole purpose for intercepting me. To fix your mistakes. That way there would be time for me to have a life when all of this is over. He said…he said I could avoid becoming like you. You're not me. You're who I could become. But I have choices.”
I raise one hand and run it across the new haircut I gave myself right after Saul grounded me for staying too long in the future. It’s short on the left and shaved almost bare above my right ear, which has four new piercings. One in my nose. One on the left eyebrow. And then I pull down the shoulder of my nightshirt so that she can see the brand-new tattoo on my arm. It’s a Cyrist symbol…black and flipped upside down. Saul hasn’t even seen it yet.
“Oh, yes. You’re such a rebel.” She practically spits the words out, and then grabs me by the shoulders. “Do you think you're the first to try and shock Saul? Just because it wasn't on your official to-do list, don't assume that I didn't do it. You have no choices, no free will as long as Saul and Simon are calling the shots. And don't think for a moment that the list they gave you is the final list. Because I can promise you Saul will have a few surprises waiting for you at the end.”
Older-Pru shoves me backward onto the pillows. I land partially on Gizmo, who lets out a little yelp. I pull him up into my lap and he starts chewing on my arm again, growling his cute little puppy growl.
She flips her arm over and activates the key. It must make a sound that humans can’t hear. But Giz definitely hears it. He startles, yanking his mouth away from my arm before his mouth is fully open. Several of his razor-sharp little puppy teeth rip into my skin.
“Ow! Gizmo!”
The puppy cowers under the covers. We horse around all the time and he usually just leaves little red tracks on my skin, but he’s definitely drawn blood this time. I press the hem of my nightshirt against the wounds to stanch them until I can get an actual bandage.
He looks frightened, either from the blood or because I yelled. “It’s okay, Giz. I’m all right. You’re still a good boy.”
Older-Me just sits there, watching. All of the anger is gone from her eyes. They’re nearly as sad as Gizmo’s now, and when she speaks her voice is soft, almost childlike.
“You should play more gently with him. I’m surprised he’s not dead already.”
THE FARM
ESTERO, FLORIDA
Day 268—May 28, 2030, 8:47 a.m.
I wish the Other-Me would visit in the daytime. It took several hours to fall back asleep, and since I operate on Saul’s schedule, he expects me to check in for breakfast and dinner. Saul really doesn’t like to eat alone. The only reason lunch isn’t required is that he rarely bothers with it. Breakfast is always served in the sunroom at eight thirty sharp. If I’m not there, I’d better have a good reason.
The mandatory mealtimes aren’t really a big deal, except for the days when the Rat Bastard is hanging out. A granola bar in my room is much better than Marcel’s blueberry waffles if Simon’s at the table. And I can tell that today is a Simon day the moment I turn into the hallway. The noise level increases by a factor of five when he’s in the house. You never know which Simon you’re getting, either. He’s popped in for breakfast at every age from fourteen to late twenties.
Saul can actually carry on a decent conversation if it’s just the two of us. I liked him better in 2024, but he can still relax. He’ll call me down to watch a movie with him some evenings. When the Rat Bastard is here, however, the conversations revolve around Cyrist International and financial holdings and various bits of court intrigue as Patrick, Edna, and several others jockey for Saul’s favor.
It’s weird. Patrick, the scared kid Saul introduced me less than a year ago from my perspective, now has silver hair and a daughter who’s around my age. Of course, they probably find it weird dealing with my older self at these meetings and then coming back to the Farm to find this me here, waiting for the next time they need to pull a toga over my head and cart me off to bless a new temple or whatever. Saul couldn’t decide where to “park” me at first. I spent a week or so at the Farm back in 1901, but it was so very boring. I rode Wildfire, but they wouldn’t let me go outside the perimeter, and even with hundreds of acres, there’s only so much time you can spend on horseback. Someone finally decided I needed quality time with my father, so…voila…back to the future. I’m not complaining. There are computers here, movies. And the horse in this barn isn’t the same Wildfire, but he’s not bad.
Saul and Simon talk about her, too, sometimes—the older me. How to keep her in line. I suppose I should listen to those comments a little more carefully from now on, but…I’m equally tempted to tune them out. Two can play her little no spoilers game. And how much do I really want to know? I think June is right. There’s a good reason why the vast majority of the Cyrists who can use the keys don’t cross their own timelines. Life is easier if you live it in a straight line.
I really don’t want to deal with Simon today. I’ll just go back to my room and face Saul later. Tell him I overslept or whatever. He’ll give one of his passive-aggressive punishments, but I’m learning to weather those. You just push back. This haircut. The piercings. The tattoo he still hasn’t seen.
I’ve already turned heel and I’m heading the other way when I hear Simon say my mother’s name. The context isn’t clear, but they rarely mention her, at least not within my earshot, so I’m curious. Of course, they’ll move on to some other topic if I join them in the sunroom. So I cut through the formal dining room and into the kitchen that sits between the two areas, ready to give some excuse for coming in this way if Marcel is still in there cooking or cleaning.
The kitchen is empty, however, so I can listen in without Saul or Simon seeing me. I snag a banana from the wire basket and park myself on one of the barstools.
Even though I’m closer now, Saul’s side of the conversation is a little hard to make out. “…much harm can they do?”
“Probably not much,” Simon replies.
I wish I could see Simon from here, because it’s a lot easier to gauge how old he is by sight than by hearing him talk. And unless you’re in the room when he gives Saul the date he’s popping in from, it’s hard to know when he’s talking about.
“Since Pru and your buddy came through with the spare keys,” he says, “we don’t really need the ones the girl is hunting. I just don’t like her snooping around.”
The girl. Usually that means me. But…he just finished saying that I came through for them.
“It’s something that changed,” he adds. “I guess that’s what’s bugging me most, Saul. And I don’t know how much we can trust Pru where this situation is concerned.”
“I thought that was the entire…” something, something, “reboot? How many sets is she carrying around now?”—I don’t follow anything for the next few seconds, but Saul sounds angry. He doesn’t yell when he’s mad. In fact, his voice gets softer—“…that Kiernan kid?”
“No,” Simon tells him. “He doesn’t. All of that was before the timeshift. I made sure he doesn’t remember any of it. He doesn’t remember Kate at all now.
”
“You’re certain about that?”
“Yeah.”
But he doesn’t sound certain. And I’m apparently not the only one who catches it, because Saul mumbles something I can’t hear.
Whatever he said seems to have set Simon off. “Hey, I don’t ask for much, Saul. Have you ever had reason to question my loyalty? Or my competence? No. You know you haven’t. If I tell you I’m taking care of something, I’m taking care of it. Kiernan’s a friend. You let me handle him, okay?”
There’s a brief silence, and then Simon chimes in. “Pru bungled the whole thing with Katherine, or we wouldn’t even be having a discussion about her granddaughter. Maybe the best bet is just to solve both our problems at once. What we talked about before—a clean slate. I’m assuming you don’t have any sentimental reasons to keep them around.”
Saul says something I don’t catch, but he must have answered in the negative, because Simon continues, “Then the only question is whether it will impact what happens later?”
“There could be a minor schedule change. I don’t…” A long space where Saul is too soft to hear, and then, “…ironed itself out. Wouldn’t be the first historian they lost in the field. The question is whether you have the votes from the board if Pru gets wind of this.”
“You want a formal vote on this at the meeting?” Simon sounds surprised.
“No. And I think we should do it either way, but why make the board angry when they find out? If we can get their support…”
A pause, and then Simon says, “I’ll make sure we have a majority. There are only few weak links. Ronald could go either way. Jeanine…well, you know Jeanine. If I don’t get a chance to talk to her before—”
“Sister Prudence!” The door from the dining room swings open.
It’s Marcel, the guy who usually cooks for us. I hop up from the stool and toss my banana peel into the disposal.
“Breakfast is on the sidebar,” Marcel says.