by Walker, Rysa
Five minutes later, I’m in the elevator, carrying a white box with a red cross printed on the front. It contains several types of bandages, a tube of something called Acriflavine, scissors, gauze, aspirin, and half a dozen additional items.
As I’m about to open the door to our quarters, I remember the CHRONOS key still around my neck. If I’d arrived on the jump platform as usual, along with everyone else, I’d have handed my key to the jump coordinator, who would have filed it inside the cabinet until my next trip. There’s no reason for anyone to carry a key. The entire building is inside a protective CHRONOS field, and the keys are normally in locked mode anyway, to prevent use except via the jump platform. Angelo unlocked three keys to enable us to travel back and forth from the isolation rooms while repairing the last time shift, and Rich and I returned to the isolation wing since, unlike Tyson, we hadn’t been scheduled for an official jump today.
The key is tucked inside the dress I’m wearing, and it’s inside the shield Angelo requested from the prop department before our jump to 1966, so Saul probably wouldn’t even notice the light. But the circular outline of the key is still visible against the fabric of my dress, and Saul has seen me wearing it often enough in the field that he’d almost certainly realize what it is. Since I don’t have pockets in this outfit, I tug the chain over my neck, wrap it around the key, and tuck the entire thing under the band of my bra, beneath my left arm. It’s not exactly comfortable, but I’m not going to be in there long anyway.
Saul is seated at the table, dressed in black pants and a white shirt with one sleeve rolled up high above the elbow. The suit coat he’d worn for the morning’s jump to 1911 Georgia is crumpled on the floor, and a mostly empty glass of what I’m pretty sure is scotch is in front of him.
“I brought the kit.” It’s an obvious point, given that I’ve just placed it on the table, but I want to stress that I did come, that I did bring what he asked before I have to add the part he won’t like. “I can’t stay, though. I was in a meeting, and I need to get back. What happened?”
He fumbles with the latch on the kit, using his left hand and keeping his right arm close to his body. “A stupid accident. Brushed my arm against the side of a woodstove before I jumped out. Hurts like hell.”
The burn stretches halfway down his forearm. It’s long, narrow, and a bright, angry red.
“I’ll do it,” I say, opening the kit. “You’d have a hard time wrapping it with one hand. But I need to clean it first.”
“Just use the iodine.”
“It’s going to sting.”
“Yes. I know what iodine is. Go back to your meeting. I’ll take care of it myself.”
I ignore him and open the bottle of iodine and a packet of gauze. “Hold your arm over the table.” I dribble some of the liquid along the wound, then dab the edge with the gauze. He winces, and a tiny bead of sweat trickles from the edge of his dark hair down to the faint stubble along his jaw. “Why didn’t you just go to the med unit? This is probably going to leave a scar.”
“So? Maybe I want the scar. Maybe I need the scar to remind me not to do something so incredibly stupid again.”
I always get the sense it’s his mother talking when Saul is harsh with himself like this. Maybe his father, too, although his relationship with his dad is a bit murkier. Saul rarely mentions either of his parents. We’ve been together for several years, and I still haven’t met them, although I’ve seen pictures. Saul is an almost perfect amalgam of the two, with his father’s facial features and his mother’s dark hair, although his is straight and hers falls in dark curls with streaks of silver. I did speak a few words to the two of them when they surprised Saul with a video call two Christmases ago. It was cold and formal, so much so that I understood why he let the call go to voice mail the next year. I wasn’t around when Saul went through training, but Delia once noted that he was the only student she knew who didn’t perk up as the various holidays approached.
I’m fairly sure that his reluctance to talk about his family, to answer the inevitable questions any partner would have at the beginning of a relationship, is the main reason he left his old diaries unprotected. When I pointed out the fact that those files were open, just after we’d moved in together and set up a shared data system, he’d just smiled and said he wanted his past to be an open book.
That wasn’t entirely true, however. The entries are edited. You don’t grow up in the home of a data-systems administrator without picking up a few things. Although, come to think of it, I grew up as the daughter of a baker, too, and I couldn’t create a decent cake to save my life. My father is a dear, sweet man, but I have never seen the value in his line of work. The food unit in our kitchen produces bread that is very close to loaves he bakes the old-fashioned way. High-end units can craft a cake that is far more elaborate and, at least to my unsophisticated palate, equally tasty.
But data is at the heart of everything. My mother’s job frequently has an element of detective work. One of her occasional tasks when I was growing up was tracking missing content, especially things that had been purposefully deleted. I always enjoyed watching her try to piece together the puzzle.
That’s how I knew Saul had edited his private journal entries. They weren’t extensive edits. Just a sentence here and there. At first, I was annoyed he hadn’t been honest, but then it occurred to me that it had taken quite a bit of effort to tweak those files. He apparently wanted to be completely open but was afraid to show me everything. And I could hardly object, since I hadn’t even kept a private journal before I began field training. Did I really expect him to reveal his deepest, darkest when I was unable—and if I’m being perfectly honest, unwilling—to do the same?
The one thing the entries I read made abundantly clear was that Saul’s family was dysfunctional, maybe even abusive. That fit pretty well with other things he’d told me, including the fact that he’d actually gotten two chosen gifts—the CHRONOS gene and a black-market intelligence boost that his father’s family had been getting for generations, even during the era when genetic enhancements were entirely outlawed. An add-on genetic tweak is always risky, but even more so when the first alteration is something as complex as the CHRONOS package. Anytime he makes a mistake or does something the slightest bit wrong, he jokes that his parents should ask for a refund. And I’ve learned that there is one phrase you never, ever say to Saul Rand during an argument. You do not ask, even rhetorically, if he’s crazy. At first, I couldn’t understand why he was overreacting to the phrase, but then I realized that losing his mind is his greatest fear.
I suspect the unedited versions of his journal paint an even bleaker picture of his childhood, and it would be very easy to dredge up the missing data to confirm that. With a tiny bit of effort, I could probably even hack into his current journals. I’ll admit I’ve been tempted on a few occasions, but that would be an invasion of Saul’s privacy. And despite the edits, the older journals give me at least a partial window into his soul. Sometimes I wish Rich, Tyson, and others at CHRONOS could read them. They might not be so quick to judge, so quick to assume that Saul Rand is a pompous jerk. He’s a different person when we’re alone.
That brings to mind another very different Saul, and the thought sends a cold shiver through me. Did that other Saul, the one I saw in 1966 Memphis, choose to keep the scar on his face as a reminder of some error? Did he also have an emotionally abusive parent inside his head, judging his every move?
Saul must notice the shiver, because he places one hand over mine. “Thank you. I’m sorry for pulling you out of your meeting and for being an ass, okay? It’s not as bad as it looks. I doubt it will even scar. The whole thing just ticked me off,” he says as I finish dressing the wound. “Grant wasn’t at the stable point when it was time to leave. The official story is that he had food poisoning, but the truth is I found him trashed in the back of a bar. I was trying to drag the drunk gox out of there, and I wasn’t paying close attention to our surroundings. This was my
reward for being careless. If I’d gone to the med unit, I’d have had to explain it, and they’re probably already suspicious about the whole food-poisoning story. So . . . I draped my jacket over my arm and came straight home. This is why I hate dealing with trainees. They’re always trouble.”
I loop the edge of the gauze under one of the other layers and tie it off. “Except now you’re the one in trouble. You can’t just skip TMU.”
“Yeah. I know. They already messaged me. Twice. So did Angelo. That’s why I turned off my comm-link.”
“Angelo says you need to get over there ASAP, and he also wants to see you in his office in the morning. Maybe you should just let Grant take the heat for what he did?”
Saul gives me a wry smile and leans forward to press a kiss against the side of my mouth. “Perhaps. But where would you be if I’d done that five years ago?”
It’s an excellent point. Now I feel a little guilty—and more than a little hypocritical—for suggesting that he hang Grant out to dry. Had Saul done that on our first jump together, when we were studying a small Rhode Island village in 1780, it’s quite possible that I would have been at the center of an official inquiry. There’s even a slight chance I would have been booted from the program. We were in the village to study reactions to New England’s “Dark Day” in 1780, when the sky was so dark at noon that people had to light candles. I was a bit nervous, both because it was my first nontraining jump, and also because I’d had a raging crush on Saul Rand from the moment I laid eyes on him during my second year of training. Angelo had reluctantly teamed us up because the retiring historian whose place I was taking had been a specialist in woman-centered religions. A minister from the town, formerly known as Jemima Wilkinson, who billed herself as the Publick Universal Friend, had actually predicted the “Dark Day,” claiming it was a harbinger of the end times.
There was a scientific reason, of course. A combination of smoke from massive forest fires up in Canada and a dense fog resulted in not only the Dark Day but also a bloodred moon the night before. One of my clearest memories of that jump is Saul standing at the window, holding his key up to compare it to the moon and saying it was the same shade of red as he sees the CHRONOS medallion.
The most vivid memory, however, is the fear that my career was about to grind to a halt before it could even really begin. A woman who was gravely ill was supposed to die while we were there, and for some reason, she didn’t. I’m still not sure what action of mine could possibly have saved her life. It must have been something I did, however, because Saul didn’t go anywhere near her. She died in childbirth a few years later anyway, and the minor alterations to the timeline made only the tiniest blip on the TMU report when we returned. I’d had to dig deep into the archives to uncover any changes at all. But Saul had been ready and willing to vouch for me if there had been an inquiry, and shared worry over that prospect brought us closer.
“You’re right,” I tell him. “I’m just concerned about you not getting this taken care of properly.”
“Tell you what. We’ll compromise. It’s a Game night, anyway. I’ll head to the OC now and get Campbell’s doctor to look at it. You can tell Angelo you just missed me.”
I struggle to keep my smile in place. With all of the chaos and doubling up on days, I’d actually forgotten that tonight is one of his Game nights. He’s up to three per week now. He always says that I’m welcome to come along, and occasionally I do. But I’ve never enjoyed Morgen’s sense of humor, and I always feel like a third wheel. When Saul is playing, he barely notices I’m there. And while there are plenty of things I can do at the OC aside from watching Saul and Campbell screw around with virtual history, including an excellent spa and a world-class VR deck, I always find myself wondering what’s happening in Campbell’s private gaming suite. Has his daughter decided to drop by? Thanks to Saul’s policy of making his past an open book, I’m unfortunately aware that Alisa Campbell and Saul have a history. It’s clear that they don’t like each other, but Saul apparently never let that get in the way of a good sexual encounter when he was younger, and Alisa is always on the prowl. So, rather than lurking in the background in Morgen’s suite, I generally opt for a quiet dinner at home, followed by a glass of wine and a book. My jealous imagination is no less active when I’m here on the sofa, but at least I can avoid Campbell’s snide innuendos, his leering glances, and his foul-smelling dog, a fat Doberman who skulks around as if he’s plotting the perfect moment to sink his teeth into your thigh.
“But, Saul . . . Angelo said you needed to check in with TMU immediately.”
“Which is why you’ll tell him you just missed me. And they’ll be closed long before I get back. Maybe Morgen and I will have time to finish this final scenario, if he picks up the pace a bit. I swear the old guy is getting senile.” He tilts his head to the side, concern in his eyes. “And you should really get some rest. You look exhausted.”
My smile stays in place. But it’s even more forced now, since I find myself wondering if Alisa will be around as Saul and Morgen play, looking well rested, gorgeous as always, and undoubtedly ready for action.
Oh, come on, Katherine. You do look exhausted. You are exhausted. Maybe, just maybe, the man is concerned about your well-being.
“I am a bit tired,” I admit. “I think I’ll turn in early.”
“Good. We can sleep late tomorrow. I’ll bring back chocolate croissants. Breakfast in bed. Then maybe a little . . . exercise.” He follows this with a slow, suggestive lift of his eyebrows. “And after, we can do some research for the Memphis jump. Is that what you’re wearing?”
He means the jump to the Beatles concert, which was originally scheduled for next week. I open my mouth to say that jump has been canceled. But I’m still not sure what official reason we’re giving for that. And I can’t believe that I thought to hide the key and realized I didn’t have pockets and still didn’t consider that he might wonder why I’m in costume on a day when I’m not on the jump schedule. Maybe he’s right about me being exhausted.
“Yeah. I was at costuming when Angelo called me. Because I was late for a meeting with him.” The answer is so lame that I cringe inwardly. We never have meetings with the costuming team. But Saul is now reading something on his retinal screen. I’m not even sure he heard me. Which is good, but it also pisses me off.
“Get chocolate and almond croissants,” I say. “And grab a couple of those fresh mangoes if they have them.” To be honest, I can’t tell much difference between the fruit grown in the OC greenhouse and the fruit our food unit creates, but I don’t want Saul to feel like he’s getting off too easily.
“Deal. Now go. Can’t have Angelo mad at both of us.” He swats me playfully on the rear as he says the last words, and I stare down at his hand, remembering an almost identical version resting possessively on one cheek of Alisa Campbell’s ass, just before that other Saul tumbled to the ground. Saul gives me a questioning look, and for a brief second, his right eye seems to pulse and darken. It’s a trick of the light, of course. Or maybe just my overactive imagination combined with the lack of decent sleep. I blink, and both of his eyes are again their normal blue.
I turn quickly toward the door, eager to get out before I give something away. “Love you. Don’t forget the mangoes.”
Once I’m in the hallway, I lean back against the wall and take several deep breaths. I need to stop letting my imagination run wild. The man in Memphis looked like Saul. But he wasn’t Saul. There were physical differences, so it stands to reason that there would be at least as many differences in personality, right?
And maybe even differences in personal history. That other Saul definitely saw me during the concert. His eyes even lingered on my face before taking the inevitable stroll downward. On that count, at least, he was very much like my own Saul. But there had been no recognition in his eyes. The same was true for Alisa Campbell. She had looked right past me, and I’ve been up in her face on several occasions, so she sure as hell knows wh
o I am. Either there’s no Katherine Shaw in their timeline or our paths haven’t crossed. And given that I was genetically engineered for the sole purpose of being a CHRONOS historian, if there’s no me at CHRONOS, that’s basically the same thing as there being no me at all.
I don’t think my presence in his life is the only difference between the two versions of Saul Rand. It is, however, one difference that seems fairly certain and—scars and bionic eyes aside—one of only three that I can state with certainty. The other two differences of which I’m certain are that my Saul would not murder anyone in cold blood and that he would not upend history on a whim. Yes, he likes time chess. It probably isn’t an exaggeration to say that he’s addicted to it. But no matter how much he enjoys his marathon Game nights with Morgen, it’s just that—a game.
A game that he’s very good at. Perhaps not quite as good as he believes himself to be, but we are apparently up against some alternate version of Saul Rand. If the fate of the timeline rests on figuring out his team’s strategy, I can’t help but think it would be an advantage to have this version of Saul on our side.
Now I just need to find a way to convince everyone else.
FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID
COUGHLIN SUPPORTERS PROTEST RADIO BAN
(July 10, 1939) Supporters of Father Charles E. Coughlin continue their weekly protests outside radio station WMCA, located at 1657 Broadway. In January, this station was among several who barred Father Coughlin from delivering his weekly radio address because he refused to submit it in advance to WMCA officials, who were concerned about the radio priest’s ongoing inclusion of propaganda, bigotry, and racial and religious prejudice in his sermons. In particular, the station was concerned with a program in November of last year in which Father Coughlin alleged that officers of Kuhn, Loeb, and Co., a local investment firm, were instrumental in financing the Russian revolution. His source for this, he claimed, was a classified Secret Service report on Jewish efforts to support the communist-led revolution.