by Walker, Rysa
Rich swipes the display to end our session, and we head for the exit at a casual pace. Tyson makes idle conversation with Rich as we walk past the desk, something generic about the score of a game. I glance at the two men in the reflection of the door. Neither of them follows, but their eyes are definitely tracking us, and one is now talking on an ancient-looking handheld communicator.
We pick up our pace as soon as we hit the courtyard. When we turn the corner, I force myself to look at the skyline. The OC is still there, and so is the temple. But now, the symbol has the curved arms of the infinity sign.
“It changed,” I say. “While we were in there, the Cyrist symbol changed.”
They both stare at it, and then Tyson says, “It looks the same as always to me.”
“Yes. Now it does. But before, the arms were straight.”
Richard shrugs. “Maybe a trick of the light?”
I shake my head, but don’t push the issue. In order to clarify why I’m absolutely certain on this point, I’d need to explain my own connection to the symbol, which would open up a huge can of worms. Saul shouldn’t be held responsible for something that’s very clearly the work of his double from the other timeline.
“Could also be a hologram that changes,” Tyson suggests. “Although it looks more like a physical structure to me.”
Rich says, “What were you saying about this Copeland guy?”
“Coughlin. Saul did a series of jumps studying radio evangelists, and the man also worked with a conservative women’s group that I have scheduled for the last year of my field research. I think his first name was Charles. He was a Catholic priest located in Detroit, but he had a massive radio following.”
“Was he an antiwar activist?” Tyson asks.
“I don’t think so. He was just against intervention in that particular war. Saul played some of his radio sermons during his research for the trip, and his rhetoric wasn’t pacifist at all. But he was anti-Jew. Virulently so. The Catholic Church began reining him in a bit. And it eventually came to light that he’d taken money from the German government to use his platform to spread Nazi propaganda.”
“Wonder what caused him to convert?” Rich says. “I mean, those religions aren’t all that much alike, are they?”
“No. Some surface similarities, but . . .” I shake my head, trying to clear it of that vague tickling sensation again. “Catholicism had a long history even before Coughlin’s time. And Cyrisism was just one of those odd religions that had a brief heyday.”
“Or not so brief,” Tyson says, looking at the temple. “So do you still want to go to the OC, or . . .”
I’m about to say yes, but Richard saves me the trouble. “Of course. Like I said before, we have to check. Let’s split up. Wherever and whenever Max is, the shift should hit her key at the same interval that it did ours—so about thirty-six hours after we left Memphis.”
The two of them continue discussing logistics, and I wait, although my patience is wearing thin. It’s partly that I want to get to the OC. But I also want to get away from a skyline that includes that weird shifting Cyrist symbol attached to a massive temple that makes it very clear the group didn’t fade into obscurity at all. It also makes me suspect that the Cyrists’ change of fortune is connected, in some fashion, to the alternate version of Saul.
FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID
ON THE RECORD BY DOROTHY THOMPSON
(February 23, 1939) To the Intolerant!
I wish to address myself today to the intolerant, to those Americans determined, even though it may cost their lives, their livelihoods, and their very existence, to preserve the core principles of our government—that all men are equal before the law and accountable to those laws and to society for their conduct.
There are, of course, those who give mere lip service to this view, but there are many who believe it with great passion, who will not tolerate any other view. These people, these intolerant people, are the patriots that our nation needs most desperately in this hour. They are the men and women whose principles may save our nation from its enemies both outside and within our borders.
For an alliance has been formed between followers of Charles Coughlin (under whatever religious title he may be using today) and those who follow Fritz Kuhn. Their goal, simply put, is to abolish American democracy as we know it. This alliance, heretofore unofficial, with the two groups simply offering casual support and publicity to the venture of the other, has now become apparent and quite official in regard to the recent rally at Madison Square Garden, called by the German-American Bund under their slogan “Free America!”
The Bund and the Christian/Universal Front are led by exceptionally capable, ambitious men, and their reach extends to millions through Coughlin’s radio broadcasts, combining as he does his sparse bits of religion with his odious political views. Together, these two men intend to twist the instruments of democracy and free speech in order to bring about a Fascist regime.
They will not, of course, use the actual word Fascism. As Sinclair Lewis noted in It Can’t Happen Here, American Fascism will surely wrap itself in the Stars and Stripes and present all those who oppose it as anti-American. Indeed, Lewis’s book, dismissed by many as sheer fiction, provided an uncanny description of the meeting I witnessed in Madison Square Garden on Monday night, with its storm troopers willing to manhandle anyone daring to voice opposition.
Well, my fellow Americans, the storm troopers are here and more than ready to deal with “unruly elements.” I was just such an unruly element when I rose to call them out, to laugh at those who speak of the Golden Rule in the same breath that they argue for racial purity and an Aryan code of ethics. They responded by employing our own New York City police as auxiliary storm troopers to escort me from the building as chaos erupted and protestors swarmed the stage.
Once outside the building, I learned that three people—a mother and her two daughters—were killed as panicked Bund members rushed for the exits. Like many of those in attendance, I believed that I heard an explosion from the upper level of the auditorium at almost the same instant that the demonstrators broke through the barriers to show their disapproval of the gathering. As one activist noted, the free spread of ideas is a noble thing. But when the idea being spread is that people of another race or religion are undeserving of political and economic rights, when the speakers are in fact espousing intolerance, then there is a great danger to allowing those views to go unchallenged. At some point, our tolerance for their intolerance becomes dangerous to the very notion of democratic government.
The deaths last night were tragic, but they were not surprising in an environment that foments hate and distrust. Those outside the building were right to be angry that their tax dollars were being used to pay for 1,700 police officers to patrol the area.
Police officials are investigating both the purported explosion and the cause of the three deaths. We have seen this charade before. They will call in members of every leftist group in the city. If there is sufficient outcry and the actual culprit cannot be found, some convenient scapegoat—or perhaps, several—will be prosecuted.
There will, however, be little attention to the others who are responsible for last night’s tragedy, for they are the same people who will be seeking “justice.” But the truth remains . . . three people would still be alive today if our leaders had possessed the courage to say no when propagators of hatred and intolerance sought permission to use the resources of our great city to spread and celebrate their poisonous ideology.
∞7∞
TYSON
PEABODY HOTEL
MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE
AUGUST 21, 1966
A fat phone book in a blue fabric-covered binding hangs from a silver cord just below the telephone, taunting me. This is an exercise in futility. I know this beyond any doubt, even after only a brief glimpse at the history of this timeline. There will be no listing for Lowell Robinson in Memphis in 1966.
When I left Rich and
Katherine in 2304, I initially set the key for the day after the Beatles concert, planning to jump in and intercept them immediately after the time shift hits. At the last second, however, I realized that it didn’t make much sense to go in unprepared. So, I’ve spent the last twelve hours or so trying to scrounge up cash and information about the new and definitely-not-improved USA circa 1966. If Jack is stuck here, he’ll need money and some sense of the history of this new reality without WWII. Given the US’s decision to remain neutral, that conflict is generally called the Second European War, even though it obviously stretched well beyond Europe. I guess it was hard to justify calling something a world war when the preeminent military power of the era chose to sit it out.
The time shift will hit Madi’s and Jack’s keys in about ten minutes, and I need to get to my booth in the restaurant soon so that I’ll be in place to explain everything afterward. But the phone book caught my eye and I have to know. Knowing won’t make it any easier, but it’s like a mosquito bite. It hurts worse after you scratch it, but that unscratched itch will drive you crazy.
I enter the booth and thumb through the white pages. Lonnie Robinson, Lorenz Robinson. Two Louis Robinsons followed by a Lucius. No Lowell. If the man exists, he’s not in Memphis. There’s no guarantee he ever met Antoinette’s mom. In fact, the mathematical odds would suggest that they ended up in separate camps and maybe even in separate countries when the 1946 Great Diaspora to Canada and West America began. Fewer than 10 percent of the African American population stayed in what remained of the United States, and the percentages were even lower in the South.
Even if Antoinette Robinson exists, she’s not the same person. She never stood outside a drugstore in downtown Memphis with her friends and her sister, waiting for a ride to the concert. She’s never even heard of the Ronettes or the Beatles, because neither group exists.
The fact that she doesn’t exist shouldn’t bother me nearly as much as it does. Looking at things from my usual vantage point in 2304, there are millions of people who don’t exist as a result of this timeline shift, and millions of others exist who never would have in our reality. But Toni Robinson has become a touchstone for me, for reasons that aren’t entirely rational. With everything shifting around us, my memory keeps pulling up that fleeting point in time and space when I first saw her leaning against the wall of the pharmacy, the sleeveless orange dress vivid against her dark skin. That image is the one true thing for me. That is what I will work to get back to, even if I never speak to her again. Any universe in which that event never happens will be a compromise too far.
“Looking for someone, Tyson?”
I shove the phone book back onto the shelf and turn to find a tall woman in a tailored skirt and jacket leaning against the wall next to the water fountain, her arms crossed in front of her. She’s standing in almost the same position that Toni is in my flash of memory, but in almost every other way, this woman is the polar opposite. Her blond head, capped off with one of those boxy hats that are apparently still popular in this version of the mid-1960s, is tilted to the side as she examines me. She’s clearly modeled herself on the icy blondes in Hitchcock’s movies—although I have no clue if those films even exist in this timeline. I probably wouldn’t have recognized her, because conservative chic isn’t Alisa Campbell’s usual style, but her voice gave away her identity instantly, husky with a slightly teasing note.
Of course, this isn’t the Alisa Campbell I know. That Alisa can’t time travel. But the woman’s expression as she walks toward me answers one of my questions about this alternate reality. Yes, there’s a version of me in that world. And apparently, it’s a version who has made at least some of the same mistakes that I have. Enjoyable mistakes, but mistakes nonetheless.
“I was going to order a pizza,” I tell her, “but nowhere seems to have New York style.”
Alisa shakes her head indulgently. “You’ll spoil your breakfast, Tyce. Or maybe not. It always has taken at least two trips to the buffet to satisfy your appetite.”
Her tone makes it abundantly clear she’s no longer talking about food, and I have to laugh. This version is every bit as blunt and transparent as the one I know. “What do you want, Alisa?”
Her pale-green eyes scan me from head to toe, which she probably intends as at least a partial answer to my question. But then she heaves a dramatic little sigh. “Bad girl, Alisa. No consorting with the enemy. It’s a shame we’re not on the same team, though. We could have so much fun.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out one of the little fingertip drives time-chess players use to back up completed games. “We had to make a few adjustments to the rules as we went along, because we’ve never actually played against a local team before. As we were mapping out our strategy, we realized you will have a far stronger than average incentive to cheat, so we needed to add a few safeguards. No major changes, of course. Just a few tweaks to make sure the match runs smoothly.”
“Rule changes are the sort of thing you’re supposed to negotiate before play begins. What’s to stop you from changing them again midstream?”
Alisa gives me a tiny shrug. “It’s not as if you have any choice. We’re still well within typical game parameters. But if the judge decides to dock us a few points, it’s not going to change the outcome.”
“Exactly who will be judging this?”
“That’s good news for your team, actually,” she says. “After careful consideration, we decided to grant you home-field advantage. Our TD rules are slightly different, so we used yours as the starting point. There were some minor alterations, but for the most part, we’ll be playing by your rules.”
“So, are you saying we recruit a couple of time-chess judges?” As I say the words, I realize I’m not at all sure where I’d recruit them from. Does Temporal Dilemma even exist in our current timeline? I’d always gotten the impression that The Game was created as a sort of substitute for those who didn’t have the CHRONOS gene. But maybe not.
Alisa laughs. “Hardly. Human judges couldn’t be unbiased in something like this. How could you expect them to rule strictly on the merits of the game when their own timeline is at stake? Even your Solons would have trouble being impartial. Hell, even our Solons would probably have a hard time with this one. They have a tough enough time with intergenerational justice. I’m pretty sure interdimensional justice would completely break them.”
There’s an even better reason that we’ll never know the Solons’ thoughts on interdimensional justice or this godforsaken game. Based on the election signs I saw across the street from the DC History Center, the Solons don’t exist in the new timeline that’s been spun off. Alisa apparently doesn’t know that, but then I doubt the changes to the timeline a few hundred years down the pike are particularly relevant from their point of view.
“The SimMaster 8560 will be the judge,” she says. “Just as it is with your more mundane time-chess tournaments. This drive contains our moves and an accurate tally of consequences, both intended and a few wonderful little bits of serendipity that came our way. It was almost as if your universe wanted us to win.” She hands me the drive. “We’ve calibrated this to work only with that specific SimMaster model, which I believe your technicians will find to be networked to a rather . . . distant location.”
“Except our technicians won’t be finding anything. Your little stunt erased them.”
Alisa stares at me for a moment, mouth open. Then she begins to laugh. “Oh, my. How unbelievably inept. Why would they let that happen?” Her expression sobers. “You still have your full contingent, I hope? Because I can’t imagine my brother okaying substitutions, especially since we’re apparently going to have to provide you with a second SimMaster.”
I file the fact that she said brother and not father away to discuss with the others. While it’s certainly possible that the guy I saw arranging the 1965 shooting during the march from Selma to Montgomery is Morgen Campbell’s son, I’m now guessing it’s far more likely that he’s a clone.
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Alisa flips her right hand over, revealing an onyx cuff around her wrist. The cuff, which seems to operate like a spring-loaded holster, spits her CHRONOS medallion directly into her palm. Such a simple gadget, but it would have saved several generations of historians a whole lot of time if someone had thought to equip us with it.
She glances up from the interface and catches me staring. “Do you like it? I designed it myself.”
There’s no point in lying, so I say, “Yeah. Cool idea.”
“Why, thank you. Be right back.” She blinks away without even looking to see if people are watching. They aren’t—the hall is thankfully empty—but the habit of checking carefully before using the key is so ingrained that her brazenness makes me uneasy.
A few seconds later, Alisa pops back in. She abandoned the tailored look while she was away in favor of a skintight, translucent silver jumpsuit that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. I gulp, partly because the sight is dredging up some interesting, albeit rather uncomfortable, memories.
Alisa reaches forward and slips a small black SimMaster console into the front pocket of my pants. “Morgen says to tell you to be more careful with the equipment this time.” She runs one finger along the outer edge of my thigh and then steps back, her face all business now. “A few things to keep in mind. First, the system is locked for judging, so you can’t run your scenarios through the machine to test them.”
“You’re kidding? We make our changes in real time, without any sort of test?”
“Of course,” she says. “That’s what we did. It’s really not much of a game if you let the computer determine your moves.”
It takes a moment for that to fully process. Time chess is hard enough when you use the system to test the potential outcomes of your moves. The prospect of playing without that is staggering. “And we’re supposed to just accept on faith that your side adhered to that rule as well?”