Lightning Rider

by Jen Greyson

  Penya stands beyond the chickens, watching, and I freeze.

  The Roman seems as rattled by her appearance as I do. He turns around and angles as if to block me from seeing her before addressing me over his shoulder.

  “Be on your way.”

  What? Just like that he goes from accusing me of witchcraft to dismissing me? I peer around him and watch Penya’s approach.

  “Go. Now,” he says.

  Penya looks about as threatening as a loaf of bread. I glance at the back of the Roman’s head again and wonder if something is going on between them.

  He glances once more over his shoulder, and his stern look is nonnegotiable.

  “All right, all right.” I head away from the dock and glance at Penya for some explanation, but she ignores me.

  Not really my problem, and my curiosity is famous for making me stick around too long. As I round the corner, I dig my little metal top from my bra and glance behind me. I’m alone, so I let my lightning flare to life in my palm. I stop thinking, the words tumble from my lips, and the building in front of me vanishes.

  The impact rattles my teeth. My feet jam into the carpet hard enough to buckle my knees, but I manage to stay upright. I’m back at Papi’s and the house is silent.

  I’m alone.

  I glance down and see I’m in my sweats, but without the skirt. Papi brought home money, but none of his period clothes either. Apparently paper can travel with us. I may have to test that theory, too.

  I dig the scroll from my waistband and flick the lamp on the end table, burning a sphere out of the shadows. A quick glance at the clock makes me do a double take. It’s after midnight.

  I spent maybe an hour in Spain. No more than two.

  Crossing my arms, I stare at the clock for one full minute, watching the second hand sweep the face. Time jumped forward this time instead of rewinding.

  So much for my theory.

  Where do I turn for answers—Ilif? Penya? The book?

  I sway and spread my feet to steady myself. I feel like I’ve lived three years since I woke up, and I have no idea who I’m becoming.

  I fiddle with my braid, rubbing the end across my lips. Then I slip my finger into the end of the scroll and tug it open. Maybe this will clue me in. The letters and words slither and rearrange on the page until I can read them. My language abilities appear endless, just like Ilif said.

  I snort. I’m such a badass.

  The scroll is short, barely half of a regular sheet of paper. Both the top and bottom are torn off, with writing missing. A hole obscures the bottom right-hand portion.

  One will come on the eve of great turmoil.

  Within her resides a storm to match the danger facing her people.

  Born of fire from the sky, she will arrive at the time of greatest need.

  Many will endeavor to teach her, but no one can guide her path.

  She is the maker of paths.

  Guided by her storm, she will carve a new way for her people. Though she will lead them away from ruin, harm will befall many.

  The hole obscures most of the next section, but I can make out a few sentences before the page ends.

  . . . not understand her direction and will fight to sway her, she will guard the light and determine a new future.

  Strong men will rise up to aid her. One will stand as a permanent guardian, watching over her as she rests, gathering strength for the next storm.

  No, this chick is a badass.

  I lean back into the couch, exhausted. I’m all for self-confidence, but even I draw the line at thinking I’m the answer to a prophecy. Sure, I have this lightning thing going on, but it’s not like I can control it. A leader? I don’t think so.

  I carve my own path and don’t give a shit what people think. If anything, I’m a soloist. I don’t even know who wrote this. Maybe Penya did. Maybe it’s not even a real prophecy. She told me not to trust Ilif, but if they’re competitors or foes, then of course she’d tell me not to trust the other guy.

  I bite my lip and squint until my head hurts. Perhaps this is a history of someone else, and I’m supposed to learn something from it.

  But I’m the first female rider with the “storm” inside me, who arrives by “fire from the sky.”

  I jam my palms into my eye sockets. The scroll in my lap feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. Tossing it to the other cushion, I stand and wander to the window to watch the night crawl by. I should go for a ride, clear my head, decide what comes next.

  Penya expects me to come back with questions, Ilif expects me to read the book and stay out of Papi’s way . . . but I’m not ready to pick a side.

  There are too many questions I don’t have answers for, and I’m not sure they’re the kind Ilif or Penya want me digging up.

  I sigh and turn away from the window, bagging the ride for some studying with Papi’s dead father’s mystery books.

  Maybe they hold an answer or two.

  Chapter 9

  Dawn pierces the blinds of my room, and reality banishes the fog of sleep. I dreamed of Romans and warships. Mentally swiping at the cobweb of dreams and tangle of memories, I rub my eyes and wander into the hall bathroom. A wild halo sticks out from my braid, and blue circles ring my eyes. I twist the shower knobs and tug my hair free from the braid. Hot water needles my skin, and I close my eyes and lean against the wall. Steam fills my nostrils, and I breathe deeply.

  Last night’s scan of the big leather book yielded only more questions before I fell asleep—and I didn’t even get to the booklets. This time the Spanish morphed to English like the scroll, but it didn’t make the stories any more clear . . . or convincing.

  Back in the hallway, I glance at Papi’s door. It’s open and the light is off. He’s probably in his office. I grab a banana on my way through the kitchen and pad through the family room. Bimni lifts her head, pants once and drops back to sleep.

  Papi is bent over the leather book, a study in irony. Young, deadly fingers move back and forth across an ancient page. A pair of reading glasses lies discarded at the edge of his desk, no longer necessary. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this hardened version of him. Acute reflexes lift his head, though I’m silent in the doorway.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Morning.” He tucks a slip of paper behind a photo and slams the book shut, wincing at the noise. “Find anything out?”

  “I did.” I point at the book. “How about you?”

  Bimni barks from the family room. Ilif’s here.

  Papi and I exchange a glance.

  “Damn, I wanted more time,” he says, sounding defeated.

  “Me, too.” Even five more minutes would have been enough. If I thought Ilif would give us the time, I’d ask him. But I don’t.

  “Let’s get to it, then.” I hear the hesitation in his voice. Whatever he found this morning didn’t do anything to alleviate his fears. Ilif has his work cut out.

  Papi stands and ushers me out of his office.

  In the family room, Ilif stands juxtaposed against the hodgepodge of forty years of marriage—Papi’s worn orange armchair beside the gold embossed end table, the sagging plaid couch in front of dark imitation wood paneling, and the etched-glass coffee table. In the middle of it, Ilif is dressed like he’s ready for a vaudeville act on Broadway—navy blue tweed suit with wide lapels, a brilliant white shirt and blue-on-blue tie, French cuffs peeking from the sleeves of his jacket, and wide-legged pants with his signature flourish of polished wingtips. He looks dapper and unruffled, like he’s stepping off the FrontRunner train instead of hurtling through time and space.

  His dark hair sweeps back from his face, and gray wings his temples. In the dim lighting of the room’s sole lamp, his skin looks waxy, and I wouldn’t touch it for the patent to Harley’s engine. Aside from his pallor, he looks unaffected by the trip, and a light smile plays at his lips.

  “Good to see you again.”

  “Morning,” Papi says beside me, his hand still resti
ng against the small of my back. Not sure if it’s to keep me from taking off or to keep him anchored.

  If Ilif notices we look off-kilter this morning, he doesn’t say a word. He moves to stand next to the worn couch.

  “Do you travel the same way we do?” I ask, curiosity trumping hospitality. He needs to dive into this conversation with me if we’re going to yank Papi from this funk and get his approval.

  Ilif strokes the edge of his lapel. “No. My inability to utilize the lightning forces me to rely on a more technological manner of travel.”

  God, does he ever speak anything other than scientist? I sigh and fight the urge to roll my eyes. “A machine?”

  “Of sorts,” he says. “There was an inventor who generated a different machine capable of creating artificial lightning. We were to acquire it after his death.”

  “Are you talking about Tesla?” I’m awake now. If we’re talking greatest inventor who’s ever lived, I’m paying attention.

  He flicks my question away with his hand. “It’s a rather technical process. I’d rather focus on how your father travels—how his ancestors arced.”

  We drift toward the sitting area. I take the couch and Papi lowers himself to the exposed edge of the chair’s cushion, tense and fighting-ready. I drum my fingers on my thigh and glance between them, seriously hoping Ilif brought his A game.

  Ilif starts. “The best way to learn is by doing, but I want to address your concerns first.”

  “Great,” I say a little too loudly. There’s a wary tinge to Ilif’s voice that’s not helping Papi’s hesitation any. Apparently I’m going to have to play mediator here.

  After reading the scroll and talking to Penya, I have a wicked set of questions. I doubt any of them will get us headed down the right track, so I try some that Papi needs to hear.

  “Is this safe?”

  “Incredibly.”

  “What about my time in New York?” Papi asks.

  “Mere repercussions of traveling unaided. Had I been with you, your experience would have turned out much different.”

  “How did you get this job?” I ask.

  “Purely by accident the first time.” He lifts his chin, excited to show off his giant brain. “My research with some of Tesla’s later works led me to encounter frequencies that actually created lightning. One night, I encountered an unknown signal that originated elsewhere. I tracked it and found a lightning rider trying to create an alteration in 1200 BC. Since then, I’ve successfully guided over two hundred generations of riders.”

  I choke. Holy hell, how old is he?

  “Guided them, how?” Papi asks before I can figure out how Ilif isn’t dead.

  “In the beginning,” Ilif says, “I worked solely as a scribe, documenting the original event and the alteration. As that rider and I learned more about the power, I assumed additional responsibility, and as the next generation of riders came into their abilities, my history with the previous one allowed me to lessen the learning curve for the new one. With my help, we were able to avoid issues . . .” He clears his throat. “Similar to yours. Riders would usually arc a few times with an uncle or father—whoever held the ability—and then I would take them under my wing.”

  Papi fidgets and Ilif’s voice speeds up, too aware he’s about half a minute away from Papi throwing in the towel.

  “Along the way we encountered other time travelers, but your family’s unique ability to affect events made them vastly more important.” He tips his face into the bright ray of sunlight crawling across the threadbare carpet, then presses his lips together and turns back to Papi. “Your family has saved thousands of lives over the centuries. Huge strides in every field have occurred because of someone they saved. Your ancestors—you—are mankind’s guardian. I understand how perplexing this must seem, but I . . .” He wrings his hands. “I’m asking for your help. There are people in danger right now who need you. Babies will die. Mothers will die. Fathers will die.”

  Criminy, talk about a one-two combo.

  Papi stands and paces to the sliding glass window. Hands clasped behind his back, he stares across the dew-covered grass. “And you expect me to believe my father was one of your riders? That we are?”

  “Yes.” Surprisingly, Ilif skips the opportunity to cut me down. Maybe he’s not a woman-hater after all, just a little zealous about this riding stuff.

  “How many?”

  “Four hundred and thirty-six. Your father saved Da Vinci, El Cid, and Hitler.”

  “Hitler?”

  “Not all alterations are positive. They are, however, important. Sometimes one takes a turn and evil fills the gap. We didn’t anticipate Hitler’s . . . issues.”

  “I’m still listening,” Papi says.

  Ilif sits up straighter. “We documented every alteration, calculated impact, and gathered billions of bytes of data. What started with a single rider and scribe became a multibillion-dollar enterprise, employing thousands in a dozen scientific centers. At one point, I had over forty riders to guide when prolific generations overlapped. You cannot imagine the lives affected. With your family’s help, we designed a marvel of science. Our capabilities in the lab expanded every year. We refined the tracking modules until I thought we could track riders flawlessly.” A heavy sigh makes his features droop, and for a second, I believe him. “The mishap with your father proved otherwise, but I’ve been working on fixing that since relocating you.”

  “And Evy,” Papi says, returning to his chair.

  I’m still reeling from Ilif’s lab descriptions. For all the info he’s giving us, I feel like he’s leaving out some major points, like when he’s from, whether he hung out with Tesla, and where the shit-ton of cash came from that got dumped onto this project. That doesn’t happen altruistically.

  Ilif clears his throat, and I shelve my questions and try to focus on what he’s saying.

  And what he’s not.

  “About that,” he says. “The system—from the very beginning, mind you—was invented to track Rivera men by their unique DNA sequence. A woman’s is almost two percent different, and while that may not sound like a big deal, it would require changing millions of data points. I don’t anticipate there ever being another female rider, so it will be difficult to argue the expenditure of the funds required to create a new program for her.”

  “I thought you were already monitoring me,” I say.

  He hesitates, as if calculating the right answer. I’m pretty sure it’s “fuck off.” But I’m going again, and I don’t give a rat’s skinny dick if Ilif cares, notices, or bothers to monitor me. Whether he hates women or just doesn’t find them worthy of his time, it’s fine with me.

  Finally, he answers, speaking to Papi instead of to me. “Only in that I’m aware of her as a disturbance. It’s why I inadvertently followed her to Spain.” He leans forward and puts a hand on Papi’s shoulder for a brief second. “I can’t use the full spectrum of the monitoring, including the ability to see if she’s in danger. I can neither protect nor correct her.”

  Oh shit.

  “What about our talismans?” I ask. “I thought you used those to track us.”

  “It’s only part of the algorithm and only part of their use. The specific compound of the talisman is tied to your ability to arc. That is its main function.”

  Papi leans forward, elbows on his knees.

  “Once we identified your family’s DNA, it became a simple matter of instruction where the talismans and arcing were concerned, thus the books and my involvement. Part of our expansions included pushing the limits beyond simple alterations. Once we allowed certain riders the latitude to explore their abilities, we learned the eccentricities weren’t limited to affecting events. The language fluency, for example.”

  Papi rubs his temples. Ilif notices and sits back, taking a breath and starting again, slower. “Apologies, occasionally my scientific side takes over.” He tugs at his jacket cuff, measuring the exposed quarter inch of shirtsleeve against the other.


  “So is this a government program, then?” I force a whole lot of naïve girl into my voice.

  “The program is privately funded now.”

  More money, less regulation. This is quite the little project.

  “I want to continue working on some of the other programs I started in the lab—with your help, of course. The last sixty years while you’ve been missing have afforded me ample thinking time, and the one thing that’s always bothered me is the government’s unrelenting focus on the money we were saving, not who we were saving. I studied the individual contributions of people we saved. A small selection of them influenced major ideas, patents, and programs that caused shifts in global thinking.”

  “The lightning chooses to save certain people? People with special skills?” I ask.

  “No. Not the lightning . . . you,” he says, looking at Papi and extending his hand.

  Papi leaps up. “I don’t understand how that’s possible. I’ve never even saved someone from choking or pushed a person out of the way of a bus. And Rafe—”

  “I think what Papi means is, how?” I say in an attempt to divert Papi’s thoughts from his memories. “How would we know who needs saving? How would we find those kinds of people?”

  “The lightning. The lightning enhances everything about your ability, from finding the right people to knowing the perfect point of intersection with their lives, and finally, executing the alteration. Traveling via any other method makes you as limited as any time traveler.”

  “There are other methods?” Papi asks.

  “Certainly,” Ilif says. “Anyone can time travel, but only a rider can create alterations.”

  “Wait, what? Anyone can time travel?”

  Penya told me as much, but I lean forward to hear Ilif’s answer.

  “It’s incredibly simple, but we guard the method closely, allowing us to control who goes, where they arrive, when and where they return. But all that is irrelevant to this conversation. Arcing is the only type that matters. It is the only type I will support. All other time travel is merely tourism.”