by Walker, Rysa
“Why would we cheat, Tyson? Like I said, it’s not much fun if you just take the moves the computer advises. Now, where was I? Oh. Second, if the system is connected to real-time data, it should pick up your countermoves independently, assuming they’re successful. But as a formality, all moves made on the playing field must be officially entered into the system within one hour by a team member.”
“So, one hour as determined by the chronometer on that person’s medallion?”
“Yes,” she says, her tone clearly indicating that this was a stupid question on my part. “Third, the fingertip drive I just gave you must be inserted into the SimMaster within . . .” She pauses and checks the display on her key. “Four hours and eighteen minutes from now. So you might want to set an alarm. Fourth, the timer for the game itself begins as soon as you insert the file. From the moment you insert that drive, you will have the same amount of time that we did, exactly two days, forty-eight hours to the second, in which to reverse our changes. Which means you need to be ready to enter your initial predictions before the drive is inserted. And finally, all four players on your team and your five observers must be within a ten-meter radius when play begins. Otherwise, they are in violation of the rules and will be removed from the roster.”
“What do you mean by observers?”
She frowns. “Observers. The people who pay to go into the field with you. To assist you. Do you call them something else? Minor leaguers? Time tourists? You killed two of ours last round, so don’t expect that we’re going to let you off easy. And just so you know, the observer you have staying at this hotel had better watch his back. Saul knew Crocker for more than a decade. As soon as the clock starts ticking, he’ll be looking for revenge. If not before. Morgen might shrug off you killing Bailey, but Saul is territorial about his people.”
The name Bailey isn’t ringing any bells, but he must have been the sniper Madi shot in the attic in Montgomery as he was about to begin firing on Dr. King and the other marchers at the City of St. Jude. I definitely remember the other guy. He was the one posing as a member of a nearby branch of the KKK, trying to convince a bunch of teens to shoot John Lennon. We have a version of him on the crew at CHRONOS, or rather we had a version before the crew was erased.
“I think we’re going to need a copy of your rule book, because there are some major differences. We don’t take time tourists into the field. And since you’ve erased CHRONOS, that means assistants are pretty much out of the question.”
She shrugs. “Your choice. We’ll still limit ours to five, as promised, although Morgen isn’t exactly happy about how this is cutting into his profit margin, especially now that he’s required to reserve two slots for educational purposes.” It’s clear from her tone she’s not a fan of that requirement, either. “As for the rule book,” she says, “we included a copy in the file. Two quick words of caution, however. First, you might want to be careful with peripheral moves. Obviously, the system only measures the moves each team enters. If you go screwing around and make changes in a scattershot fashion, you might technically win and still not recognize the timeline you wind up with. And second, while I’m sure you would never try to cheat, Tyson, please be aware that any attempt to hack the data or the machine will result in immediate forfeiture.”
“Forfeiture of the entire game?”
Alisa gives me a disdainful look. “Of the game. And also of this timeline. If you tamper with the simulation, I can promise you that my father will make this one of our permanent simulation grounds.”
“What if we win?”
“Then we’ll move on to the universe next door. But . . . I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you. Even if you do somehow manage to reverse our little historical renovation, the contest will then be decided on points. And your team is seriously outmatched. Saul is the only person who has ever beaten Morgen and vice versa . . . and they’re playing on the same team this time. I’m no amateur, either. I started time chess back when I still had to be put down for an afternoon nap. And Esther . . . well, Esther is just plain ruthless. When you take a look at the tally, you’re going to discover that our style points are through the fucking stratosphere. We actually maxed out both chron and geo, with bonuses in each . . . although I guess I probably shouldn’t have told you that.” Her smile morphs into something that looks a lot like pity. “You’re not going to win, Tyson-From-Another-World. It’s simply not possible.”
And then she’s gone.
FROM THE BOOK OF CYRUS (NEW ENGLISH VERSION, 3RD ED) CHAPTER 6:1–12
1Do not seek the blessing; seek The Way and the blessing will find you. 2Those who believe and remain faithful to The Way will defy all odds and exceed all expectations. 3Envision your blessings and your journey to prosperity will begin.
4The price of prosperity is loyalty and adherence. 5Do not simply defend The Way. Vigilantly search for untruths that disparage The Way—and once found, attack the untruth. 6Those who oppose The Way are enemies of Earth and of all life upon it. Their lies cannot be tolerated by the faithful.
7Neither should you be yoked with unbelievers. What do strength and weakness have in common? What fellowship can light have with darkness? 8Choose The Way of the light, and surround yourself with only those willing to sacrifice all in order that all may be given unto them.
9Choosing The Way and shunning all enemies requires strength and courage. 10If you have courage, then you can change anything. If you are your own master, those lacking courage will follow you.
11Always remember that the strong are the masterwork of all creation. Lead others to the light by your example, but if they do not see, they cannot be Chosen. 12Turn your back to those who will not follow, lest their weakness poison you.
∞8∞
MADI
PEABODY HOTEL
MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE
AUGUST 21, 1966
Jack and I are looking directly at the hostess when she vanishes. People at nearby tables who had been minding their own business before, focused on their food or their conversation, now have their eyes fixed on us. Are they thinking that it’s far too early for anyone to be as drunk as we no doubt appear? Or did we just pop in out of nowhere from their perspective?
I clutch Jack’s arm, struggling to stay on my feet as my stomach lurches again. He grabs me, but I think it may be as much for his own support as for mine. Judging from his expression and his sharp intake of breath, he’s feeling the same thing I am.
And while I couldn’t swear to it, I believe most of the faces looking toward us are different. The man who was busing the table is gone. Another guy, who looks to be in his early twenties, with pale skin and freckles, has taken his place. Or rather, taken his role, because he’s now clearing a table one row over.
The walls are a different color, too, and there are now tiny vases on the tables, each holding a single yellow flower.
My nausea and dizziness gradually lessen. “Damn it,” I whisper to Jack. “What happened this time?”
“No clue. But I think we’re about to find out.”
He nods toward the booth, which is no longer empty. Tyson Reyes is seated, facing us. I can see the orange glow of his CHRONOS key through the fabric of his dress shirt. He’s wearing a blazer, but no tie. Aside from Jack, he’s still the most informally dressed person in the restaurant. He gives me a grim smile when our eyes meet, and my stomach sinks again.
Someone clears her throat behind us, and I turn to see a young woman. Her hairdo is less poufy than the earlier hostess, but she’s holding an identical clipboard and two menus. “I’m afraid our tables are full. I can put y’all on the list, if you’d like, but it’ll be a long wait. Maybe y’all should try the diner down the street?”
There is definitely a hint of judgment in her last words. And she’s lying. The restaurant is barely half-full. I see at least half a dozen empty tables and booths, far more than there were before the time shift.
Jack’s arm stiffens slightly under my grasp. “My wife is a b
it dizzy,” he says coolly. “We’re . . . expecting.”
My first thought is expecting what? But then I realize he means I’m pregnant. Not the first excuse I’d have picked, but I roll with it, placing a protective hand on my abdomen.
“And we already have a table,” I tell her, nodding toward Tyson. “We’re meeting a friend.”
“Oh.” Her voice is still cool, but there’s a hint of sympathy in her eyes. “Y’all have a seat, then, I guess. Get her off her feet.”
The hostess plops the two menus onto the table as we slide into the booth. She says she’ll be back with another menu for Tyson, but he gives her a broad smile and says it won’t be necessary because he’s been planning his order since he woke up. He uses the same folksy tone I’ve heard him adopt before when talking to locals.
It usually works rather well. Tyson is a good-looking guy, and he can slip effortlessly into a Deep South drawl. His charm offensive doesn’t seem quite as effective on this waitress, however. There’s a hint of wariness in her answering smile as she sizes him up. His hair is cropped close, just as it was the last time I saw him, but his eyes are brown today. He apparently decided to ditch the blue contacts that CHRONOS generally outfits him with when he’s in time periods where race might limit his mobility. Tyson hadn’t gone into much detail about that issue, simply stating that his genetic-design team decided to leave him “racially ambiguous” so he could research both sides of the civil rights movement, unlike the vast majority of historians whose race, along with quite a few other characteristics, is modified before birth so that they’ll be a better fit for the research agenda they’re eventually assigned. I’d gotten the distinct impression, though, that Tyson was tired of shifting race depending on which side of the movement he was currently tasked with researching.
I don’t blame him. The whole thing feels offensive to me, even though he explained that racial norms are a bit different in his time. That seems reasonable. There are huge differences, after all, between my own time and this one. The Civil Rights Act of 1964 was passed only two years ago, and prior to that restaurants and hotels like this could legally refuse to serve customers based on skin color. Looking around, I can see there still seems to be quite a bit of bias, since Tyson is the darkest person in the dining room aside from the man clearing tables.
Correction. The man who was clearing tables before the time shift, who has now been replaced by a younger white guy. Which has me wondering about the status of civil rights in this timeline.
“How did you know we were in the restaurant?” Jack asks once the waitress is gone.
“I checked the room first. When I didn’t find you there, I assumed you were down here.”
It probably should have occurred to me earlier that Tyson, and most likely Richard and Katherine as well, has stable points set inside the hotel room Jack and I are using, since they were the previous occupants. Which means they could have viewed anything and everything that happened in the room over the past day and a half, including several occasions when Jack and I were engaged in . . . well, let’s just call it mutual stress reduction. Hopefully, none of them has voyeuristic tendencies.
“And I’m starving,” Tyson continues. “I’ve had to make five different jumps in order to get enough money to cover our breakfast and your room.”
“But we have money. And Richard already . . . ,” I begin and then realize what he means. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Not in this reality. Have you had any luck using the CHRONOS key?”
I say yes at the same instant that Jack says no.
“He’s had limited success,” I amend. “And Lorena is going to work on a serum as soon as she gets some time at the lab.”
“You probably shouldn’t count on that,” Tyson says, dropping his voice to a barely audible whisper. “I haven’t been to 2136. None of us had a Log of Stable Points with us when the shift happened, so we’re limited to what’s on our keys. There are only two points on my key that were listed as stable for any year after 2100, and they’re both inoperable now. The changes to the timeline are fairly massive that far out, and the odds of your friend still having that job are slim. You’re sure they were under a CHRONOS field when the shift happened?”
I nod. “Lorena took the day off.”
“But how can we know when it hits them?” Jack asks. “For that matter, how did you know when it would hit us?”
“The chronometer in the keys,” Tyson says. “Apparently, the timing is linked to the connection between one of the clock genes in the CHRONOS alteration and the field that surrounds the key. Richard could probably explain it better—he’s always had a more solid grasp of the whole temporal quantum-entanglement thing. But the gist of it is the medallions have an internal clock that is synced to all of the others. We felt it hit about thirty-six hours later . . . although it wasn’t nearly as big of a physical jolt for us as it was for you just now, since 2304 is a lot further away from 1941. But the medallion has to be in contact with someone who has the gene to trigger the internal clock, and none of the people currently at your house have the CHRONOS gene, right?”
“Right,” I say. “So . . . I calculate a day and a half out from the first time I went back to the house after we saved Lennon.”
“Wasn’t saving Lennon supposed to reset everything?” Jack asks Tyson.
“It did. Until our friends in the timeline next door decided it would be fun to break something else.”
“I need to go home and check on them,” I say. “Make sure they’re okay.”
Tyson nods. “Definitely. And then we need to get ourselves to a point in time where we can fix this.”
“You mean that’s what you need to do,” Jack says. “Right? You and the other trained historians. Madi’s not . . .” He trails off, shaking his head, because it’s clear from Tyson’s expression that I’m included in whatever plans he’s making.
“Jack’s right,” I say. “Whatever just happened, I am not trained for this. We got lucky the other night. I’d be a liability, not an asset.”
“I disagree strongly on that point,” Tyson says. “I watched you in that attic in Montgomery. You have good instincts. I’m pretty sure I’d be dead if that wasn’t true. But either way, I’m afraid the decision isn’t mine. You’re on the roster.” He reaches down to the bench next to him and picks up a small diary that’s sitting on top of a flat brown paper bag. The diary is virtually identical to the one currently in my backpack.
He opens it to a page near the back, then slides it across the table toward us, pointing to a link near the bottom. When I tap the link, a holographic display of a globe appears above the surface of the book. I glance around to the other tables nervously, even though I know the image is only visible to someone with the CHRONOS gene. Anyone else watching will just see me staring at an old book. Or, more accurately, they’ll see me staring at a point a few inches above an old book. Odd perhaps, but not something that would set off alarm bells. And the others in the restaurant are completely oblivious to the fact that reality just shifted around them. Although it might be more accurate to say that reality shifted around us.
Based on the image hovering above the diary, I’m guessing the shift was caused by the United States opting out of World War II in this timeline. And the people who caused that temporal rift are cordially inviting me to help fix the damn thing.
I tilt the display toward Jack. He squints at it, almost like he needs reading glasses. I’m about to ask if he wants me to read it aloud when he pushes the diary back a few inches and says, “So, the US is a Nazi outpost now?”
“Technically, no.”
I arch an eyebrow at Tyson. “I can’t say I’m particularly liking the technically bit.”
He slides the brown paper bag across the table. “A little reading for later. Don’t let anyone see you with it. Although I’m pretty sure anyone who did see you with it would assume it was a joke, since the publication date is 2022.”
I peek inside and find a paperback
book with a yellow-and-black cover. On the bottom half of the cover is an oddly truncated outline of the United States, minus California and four other western states. Across the top is a title that begs the question why anyone would want to be seen with the book, even if it wasn’t time-travel contraband—The Complete Dummy’s Guide to US History Since 1950.
“Keep in mind,” Tyson continues, “that the book is as much propaganda as it is history. But to give you the brief version, Hitler’s forces stopped at the Atlantic Ocean. The Stars and Stripes are still flying outside, not the swastika. There aren’t quite as many stars, because the country divided into socioeconomic zones. Germany kind of . . . mellowed, I guess, after Hitler died in 1952. And the US went in the other direction. Ideologically speaking, at this point, you’d be hard pressed to tell the difference between the US and the Third Reich, although our system has more odd religious quirks. Most people of color saw which way the tide was going and got the hell out while they still could. As for the long-term effects of the time shift, they’re major and global. There’s still a cold war of sorts, but what remains of the US is allied with Europe against China, Japan, and Russia. Sometimes, the cold war heats up, and we end up fighting in wars along the periphery of our territories.”
Jack looks back at the display, squinting again. “I don’t recognize some of the names on the other side, but Madi’s not listed in either column.”
“Morgen Campbell and his daughter, although I’m thinking this version of him is a clone for reasons I’ll get to in a moment. Saul, obviously. I didn’t see Esther Sowah in Memphis, but she’s one of our historians,” Tyson says. “And she’s friendly with Saul in our timeline, so I’m not too surprised to see her in the mix on the opposing team. And then our team.”
“I’m under the fake name I gave Katherine,” I explain. “Thanks to A Brief History of CHRONOS, I couldn’t use my real name, and we decided it might make more sense to tell Katherine I was from a future class of historians. God—what year did I even tell her? I can’t remember.”