Red, White, and the Blues

by Walker, Rysa

  Rich activates the key. “So, what time do you want me to check?”

  “Now,” Alex says. “This exact time.”

  “Okay. What am I looking for?”

  “If I’m right, you’ll know,” he says.

  After a moment, Rich says, “Damn.” He hands me the key and says, “Pan around to the right.”

  There are only seven stable points on the key, including the last one, which is the stable point we arrived at on the other side of the library. Only I can tell almost immediately that it’s not quite the same. It’s still the library, but the faint orange glow from the bookcases is missing. The furniture is different. And when I reach the spot where we’re currently standing, we’re not here. There’s something that might be a computer on a desk near the back wall, but Alex’s displays are entirely missing.

  “Is this one of those different realities?” I ask, nodding back at the display.

  “If I’m right,” Alex says, “it’s their reality. That’s the default for this key.”

  “That’s excellent work,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Still can’t say which of these universes it’s connected to, so the odds are extremely small that anything I have here will come to fruition while there’s still time on the countdown. Even if, by some miracle, it does, that wouldn’t tell us how to evict them. And it doesn’t address the Saul issue. I mean, I don’t know him, but I don’t get the sense that he’s the type to just amble placidly back into his corral at the end of the day.”

  “He’s not,” Richard says. “You’ve got enough to focus on, though. Like Tyson said, this is really good work.”

  Alex colors slightly, and shrugs again. “Some version of me is apparently the idiot who broke a perfectly good space-time continuum into this.” He nods toward the tangled display of the time cables. “I have an obligation to fix it. It would be easier if we had one of their people here to activate the key, though. I might be able to match the frequency. It’s like what I was explaining to Rich just before you walked in. Some information, like the colors, isn’t encoded in the key. It’s encoded in the person using the key. The chronotron particles are released when the key reads their genetic signature, and that’s part of the information included in the packet. That’s why Saul’s dot still shows as red, even though he’s using a key that reads CHRO-NOS. And that’s how we can tell that it was the Saul from this timeline who was at Madison Square Garden watching the brawl on February 20, 1939, not the Team Viper version.”

  “Good to know.” I’m not sure whether it’s good news or bad that our own rogue agent is behind all of this. Did he get Lawrence Dennis to set up the fake explosion? And why was he targeting a journalist? Either way, I guess it is still good to know. Any information is better than working in a vacuum.

  “I was just about to ask Alex how much he can narrow down the exact location of those dots,” Rich says. “That could make a huge difference in terms of the number of observation points we need to set, and how many your buddy in 1966 will have to monitor.”

  “The closest I can drill down to with any degree of accuracy is a square kilometer.” Alex taps something on the screen, and a map of the fairgrounds is layered below the current display. “So I could tell you, for example, that most of the activity on September 12th is in the Amusement Zone, since that falls in one sector.” He flicks through several screens, and then adds, “On the rest of the dates, most of the activity is on the other side. Not sure how helpful that is.”

  “It tells us that Tomonaga wasn’t spending his time at the science exhibits, so that’s something,” I say. “I’d have been hunting for locations dealing with advances in physics or whatever.”

  “Hmph. Then you’d have been hunting in vain,” Alex says. “To be honest, there wasn’t a lot for serious scientists in the main exhibits. RJ says it’s mostly just gadgets, like that giant robot. The latest in home appliances. It focused primarily on ways people were turning science into commercial products. They did have a science advisory committee. Einstein was the honorary chair, in fact. But it was added once most of the planning had already taken place.”

  “So, you’ve been looking through the maps, right?” Richard says. “You have a decent idea what this Fair had to offer. What would you visit in the Amusement Zone? I mean, you’re the closest thing we have to a 1930s Japanese graduate student in physics.”

  “I guess that’s true, since I can tick off two of those four boxes. If I could pick a date, I’d go in July of 1939, because RJ was reading that they had the world’s first science-fiction convention. Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, and a bunch of others were there. But if I was in Tomonaga’s position, and I had to go on that specific day, I’d probably check out the music shows. And I’d check out that Theater of Time and Space. As best we can figure out, it was a simulated rocket ride.”

  “He’d also visit the Salvador Dalí exhibit,” says RJ, who has just entered the library with Lorena and the baby. “The one with the naked girls. For educational purposes, of course. Just to see what was considered risqué in 1939.”

  Lorena pulls a hypospray container from her pocket and hands it to me. “Give this to Madi to deliver to Jack. No clue whether it will work, but if not, I’ve got some other ideas.”

  “I also come bearing gifts,” RJ says, handing me a small bag. “Two FBI badges. The fabricator isn’t exactly cutting edge, and they definitely wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny today, but they look pretty decent, if I do say so myself. I think they’ll be fine for the 1930s, and they may come in handy for getting people to talk to you.”

  Rich snorts. “Not at Café Society. But yeah, they may be useful at the Fair. Why only two?”

  “I didn’t bother with badges for Madi and Katherine because nobody would buy that they were FBI back then. But so they don’t feel left out, there are also several CHRONOS-field extenders in the bag, like this.” He pulls back his sleeve to reveal a plastic tube filled with purple light. “Although I guess these are mostly gifts from Alex, aside from me printing out the casing and using the key down in the basement to charge them.”

  “They should be considered backup only,” Alex says. “Eight hours, tops, and I wouldn’t trust them more than a hundred yards from a CHRONOS field. But maybe they will prevent any of our people from being erased the way Madi said they erased your friend.”

  Thea, who is now at the door, says, “Oh, wait. Don’t go yet. I have something for Madi, too.” She hurries off down the hall.

  “Is she . . . okay?” I ask Lorena, nodding toward Thea’s retreating back. “I mean, mentally?”

  Lorena makes a little comme ci, comme ça gesture. “She’s okay enough that I trust her to keep an eye on my baby for a half hour, with Jarvis monitoring. Her heart seems to be in the right place. I wouldn’t, however, trust her to handle anything complex.”

  “That’s not exactly comforting. The rules say each team member has to contribute, and I think that means she and Clio will both need to enter at least one of the three moves. But you guys have override powers. I think it’s probably better to have the right moves entered by the wrong person than the reverse.”

  “I wouldn’t guarantee that,” Rich says. “Either one of them might get us disqualified entirely.”

  Thea must not have had to go far, because she returns with a computer tablet, which she hands to Richard, who sticks it into his bag, along with the tablet of relevant newspaper articles that RJ assembled.

  “That’s for Madi,” Thea says. “I did what she told me to do. I wrote it all down and it’s mostly in order. Plus, The Verses and what I remember of the Chapter. Maybe it will help her understand. And now I’m going downstairs for a swim. Would anyone care to join me?”

  We all decline, citing work and nodding toward the timer. Thea’s face falls.

  “Actually, maybe Yun Hee and I will join you,” Lorena says. “We’ll be down shortly. We just need to get into our swimsuits.” It’s clear from Lorena’s voice that she’s not exactly eager
, and I’m not sure why she puts such strong emphasis on the last word, but Thea doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Oh, wonderful!” she says. “That makes me happy. It’s so much more fun with friends.” When she reaches the door, she turns back. “Tell my granddaughter that she needs to come home. I travel all this way to visit, and I’ve hardly even gotten to see her.”

  “She’ll be home soon,” I say, nodding toward the timer. “At some point before that hits zero.”

  But Thea is already heading down the hall.

  “I can take June Bug down and join Thea at the pool,” RJ says, taking the baby from Lorena. “You went yesterday. Come on, sweetie. Let’s go splash.”

  An amused smile spreads across Lorena’s face as he heads to the door with the baby.

  Alex glances at his cousin’s retreating figure. “So . . . what’s that all about?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Lorena says. “Just wondering how RJ will react when he discovers that Madi’s grandmother prefers to swim au naturel.”

  FROM THE VERSES OF PRUDENCE

  Hail, Daughters of Prudence, we Sisters of the Word.

  Templars keep their secrets, and so ours shall be heard

  From lips of Sisters only into a Sister’s ear,

  Until the Scourge returns and trusted others hear.

  Those who sought to stop him had but a partial win.

  Time is not a circle, but circles round again.

  ∞24∞

  KATHERINE

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  OCTOBER 24, 1939

  I pull the map out of my handbag and stare at it for a moment before handing it to Rich. “Okay . . . Town of Tomorrow is here,” I say, tapping the neighborhood of model homes that housed one of the two existing stable points for this World’s Fair. “So, we turn left?”

  He tilts it counterclockwise a few degrees to line it up with the Trylon and Perisphere, the large spire and orb that sit at the other end of the fairgrounds. It’s one of those campy, hand-drawn maps with little illustrations of the various exhibits, many of which are now obscured by the large red dots that Tyson, or maybe Alex, drew to indicate locations where Rich and I need to set stable points today.

  “Looks like a left here, and then another left around the fountain will take us to the British Pavilion,” he says. “And we’ll probably have five minutes to kill before the tour that gets us close to where the briefcase was found in the original timeline.”

  He hands the map back, and I fold it along the creases, but apparently not along all of the creases or at least not along the right creases, because it’s now twice as thick as it was before. “God. I hate these stupid things. They never fold up right, and they’re always badly drawn.”

  Rich chuckles. “I’d have thought you were used to them by now, given how many Fairs like this you’ve attended.”

  “It was more multiple jumps to just the one Fair in Chicago,” I say, “and I only had to wrestle with the map once. After that I pulled up locations on my retinal screen. But even that was mostly for the schedule of events. By the time we made our first jump there, I had the entire layout memorized.”

  “So you’re experiencing a fair like an actual tourist, for once,” he says.

  It’s a good point, and one I hadn’t really considered. Our goals at CHRONOS have always been twofold in a sense. If we simply wanted data, we could get that remotely. That was the process, after all, before the two halves of the agency merged. They left small recording devices, both audio and video, in strategic locations, and historians watched those if they had questions that couldn’t be answered definitively by traditional historical methods, or even, in many cases, to prove that traditional methods had gotten history very, very wrong. We still do remote monitoring, on occasion, at locations where it would be difficult to gain access for security reasons or where events are relatively small and popping in to view them from multiple perspectives would mean encountering ourselves and triggering double memories. But the goal of the Natural Observation Society—the NOS in CHRONOS—was to ensure that we understood the nuances that can only be captured by living through similar experiences, or experiencing them naturally. Folding that stupid map back in 1893 was frustrating, but it’s a frustration that other tourists had to go through on a regular basis.

  “Point taken,” I say. “Perhaps I would have understood the people I encountered better if I hadn’t taken the easier path with fewer annoyances. That doesn’t give me any qualms about dispensing with the map this time, though. This isn’t my era, and it’s most certainly not my World’s Fair.”

  “Better or worse?” Richard asks.

  “Mostly worse. It definitely smells worse.”

  That’s primarily because there are cars everywhere. The Fair that Saul and I pretty much camped out at for six months last year, and to which we’re scheduled to return in a few months, had an elevated railroad that circled part of the fairgrounds. It had gondolas to carry you along the canals, an automated sidewalk, and even a giant Ferris wheel that offered a bird’s-eye view of the entire Expo. But there were only a handful of automobiles, and the majority of them were electric. I was one of the many thousands of people who took a ride in a six-seater electric vehicle that circled the interior of the massive Electricity Building.

  If there are any electric vehicles at this fair, I haven’t spotted them. I have, however, spotted dozens of the internal-combustion variety, many of them circling about on the Road of Tomorrow that runs through and up onto the roof of the Ford Building. Grand Central Parkway runs through this fair, as do several other highways, and the air is thick with gasoline fumes.

  Thinking of Saul pulls up the image of last night. His stunt double. The damn nightgown. But I shove the thoughts away and answer Rich’s question.

  “The clothing is definitely less restrictive than it was in 1893, except costuming would have made sure that I had functional pockets and a bag that would actually close even with this ridiculous map inside. This fair seems less crowded, too. I think it’s on a bigger plot of land.”

  “Maybe. But the crowds are usually much worse than this,” Rich says. “That’s why Tyson picked today. It’s one of the days when attendance was relatively low, according to the calendar Clio’s parents left in the folder. And since our only goal is setting observation points in the areas we’ll need to monitor, the fewer people the better. The only thing going on today is some sort of coal convention and the Mardi Gras parade over in the Amusement Zone. But you probably missed that discussion when you and Madi were in Detroit.”

  “Well, either way, having fewer people around is a huge plus. I suspect that the food is better here than at the Expo, too. Or at least safer. But I think I’ll pass on the jellied gumbo.” This is a very purposeful attempt on my part to switch the subject. We both skimmed through a folder that included menus, along with news clippings, flyers, and other ephemera, and I expect that Rich will go off on some of the more oddly named dishes, like scrod or rarebit.

  But he doesn’t, because he’s clearly got something on his mind. Madi and I spent about a half hour this morning at the new Cyrist temple, the Shrine of the Lotus Flower, a few weeks after its opening. It was the time and place that Saul and I agreed on for our meeting before I left last night, so he was expecting us. When we popped in, he feigned surprise—overfeigned it, to be honest—at the fact that I wasn’t alone, but since Madi hadn’t met him before, I doubt she noticed that he was hamming it up a bit.

  Saul gave us a rundown on his work with Coughlin and the others in the America First Committee, including Lindbergh, Dilling, and even Laura Ingalls, who he described as the pilot who flies them around to various speaking engagements, not the woman he’s boinking on the side. After his summary, he’d asked what our next moves were, and I told him that we’d be spending four or five hours setting stable points to see if we could pinpoint the specific actions that Team Viper entered into the system for their official moves.

  All in all, he was in a fair
ly laid-back mood, noting that he’d also managed to convert the pilot to Cyrisism . . . or at least to the notion that Cyrist money spent just as well as the extra cash she’d been earning as a German agent.

  I resisted the very strong temptation to ask him for the details of her conversion. Maybe that was the conversion ceremony I witnessed through the key. I should go back through and see if there’s a lotus flower stamped on her butt.

  The entire visit took thirty minutes off the timer, and when we returned to the apartment, Rich, Tyson, and Clio were apportioning sections of the fairgrounds that our two groups would cover. I doubt we missed much in terms of the discussion. This is the second time Richard has made not-so-subtle hints in that regard, however, and I think he’s just trying to find a way to steer the conversation around to Saul.

  Maybe Saul is right. Maybe Rich isn’t exactly pleased that he survived. I push that thought away, because I don’t like to think that Rich could possibly be that petty. To wish that on me, knowing how unhappy I’d be, would make him a pretty sad excuse for a friend.

  It’s also possible that he’s just picked up on my mood. Madi even asked if I was okay this morning, and she barely knows me. I simply told her that I didn’t sleep well because I kept wondering if and when she’d pop back in from her little field trip. The fact that she didn’t make a snarky comment in return means she hasn’t thought to check the stable point she set in the room last night in order to see whether I stayed put.

  Rich and I walk along silently for a few minutes, stopping at various junctures to set an observation point for watching the crowd later if need be. Finally, after several minutes of silence and growing tension, I grab Rich’s arm. “Just say it. Whatever it is, say it and get it off your chest.”

  He sighs and nods toward the British Pavilion, which is just ahead. “Could we take care of this first? We’ve only got about five minutes before the tour begins. We can hash it out afterward.”