Red, White, and the Blues

by Walker, Rysa

Alex and Rich are seated in two of the five office chairs, which are now pulled up near the couch along the back wall. Thea, RJ, Lorena, and the baby are on the couch. Luckily, the baby is asleep against her father’s shoulder. A tiny version of the field-extender bracelets that Alex has been working on is now on her upper arm, and I see a familiar amber glow shining through the sleeves of RJ’s sweater. I doubt that Yun Hee would recognize the threat of being held at gunpoint at her age, but she’d probably pick up on the tension in the room.

  A lot of that tension is emanating from Thea. Her eyes are locked on Other-Saul, and she keeps repeating something under her breath, almost like an incantation.

  Esther motions again with the gun and then goes over to discuss something with Other-Saul. I sit down next to Rich and squeeze his arm. “What the hell is going on?” I whisper.

  “They’re saying Saul killed Morgen. The clone version. Plus the two observers we already knew about. And since he’s our . . . colleague, they’re assuming we okayed those executions. Once everyone is here, we’ll be facing an audience tribunal. At least, I assume they’re still waiting for everyone to get here. There’s been some disagreement about that. Esther said they could stretch it out over two episodes. I was really hoping you’d see that something was off with the stable point before jumping in.”

  “Not until I jumped in, and then . . .” I shrug. “I should have jumped back out, but I took that extra step and . . .”

  “Wish I had kept the Timex.”

  “Wouldn’t work here anyway,” I tell him. “The entire house is under a temporal field in our frequency.”

  “God. I hadn’t even thought about that.”

  “What happened to the game console?” I ask.

  “We were scattered around the room to begin with,” Lorena says. “I guess they thought it was enough just to guard the door. Esther knocked down the tent of mirrors that Alex had put up to block the game console from recording us nonstop. Thea was nearby, and while they were moving Alex’s system to set up the decoy displays . . .”

  “I smashed it,” Thea says with a proud lift of her chin. “Crushed it under my heel and stopped that nasty countdown. Their game is evil. Plus, I don’t like spy cameras. The Templars put them in our dorms after one of the Sisters sneaked out. I consider them rude. Where is Madi?”

  Alisa pops in at that moment, carrying another game console. She waves it toward the couch. “See? Easily replaced, you crazy old bitch.” Thea responds with a happy smile, as Alisa heads back over to the desk, stepping gingerly around the splinters of glass and wood. And then Thea goes back to her muttering. I only pick up a few words: “Not him, that’s not him.”

  “Nerd boy,” Alisa says. “Get over here and hook this up.”

  Alex sighs, but there’s clearly no way he can refuse. I need to get Saul’s message to him, but his chair is at the far end of the couch, and there’s really not much I could say to cloak something like 27V in normal conversation. “He’s going to need my help syncing it up,” I say.

  Alex opens his mouth, and I’m pretty sure he’s about to say he can handle it. He probably can, to be honest, now that he’s seen what I did earlier this week. But RJ apparently clues in that I need an excuse to speak with him, because he taps his cousin’s leg sharply with his foot. Alex looks down at his leg, then over at me, and says, “Oh. Yeah.”

  “Their system is pretty archaic,” I tell Alisa. “It took about an hour last time, but I remember most of what I did. Shouldn’t take long.”

  Esther scowls in our direction, and I’m almost certain she suspects I have ulterior motives. And apparently, I’m right, because she motions for me to follow Alex, and then she follows me. She parks her behind on the desk next to me and proceeds to watch my every move.

  I keep flashing back to seeing her up in the balcony of the new Cyrist temple, seated between the two Sauls. Was that a trap she and her Viper colleague were trying to set for Saul? Or are they working with Saul, and this is just an elaborate ruse on their part? And this message I’m about to pass to Alex, assuming I can even find a way to pass it to him, is probably useless. It’s not like he can type it into the system and some wormhole will come along and suck them back into their universe. Worse yet, it could very easily be false information, given that it’s coming from Saul. After everything he’s done in the past few days, trusting that he is actually trying to help us is crazy. But right now, our choices seem a bit limited.

  For several minutes, Alex and I work together on syncing up the systems, taking our time. I even say aloud that we should take it slowly, or else we’ll have to rip everything out again like we did last time. Which never actually happened, of course, but I’m hoping that Esther will grow bored and wander off. The Esther from our timeline definitely would. Saul once said he thought she lacked patience for The Game because her design team customized her to fit their notions of what was needed in ancient Akan society, in much the same fashion that Tate Poulsen’s team fashioned him to fit in with Vikings.

  Eventually, Esther’s attention is pulled away. I have a hard time seeing this as a good thing, however, since the distraction is Tyson jumping into the stable point near the wall screen. That leaves only Madi and Clio outside the trap. And Saul.

  I’m determined not to waste the opportunity, no matter how it was gained. Leaning forward, I whisper, “They’re from World 27V. Two. Seven. Vee.”

  He doesn’t respond, probably because Esther is back on her perch. But his eyes clearly telegraph the question, Are you sure?

  I nod, even though I’m very much the opposite of sure.

  My decision to trust Saul is a gamble, but it’s not entirely a shot in the dark. Saul is insane. I have no doubt on that front. In fact, I suspect that he would sacrifice everyone in this room, including me, for this future he intends to craft based on his Book of Cyrus. All of which means he was never the person I believed him to be. Our entire relationship was built upon deception, although if I’m being honest, a good deal of it was self-deception on my part.

  But beneath all of those layers of lies, there is still one thing I know. One thing of which I am certain. Whether Saul truly believes this is a war or simply some variant of his beloved Game, he sees this as a battle—perhaps the ultimate battle—between him and Campbell. And as long as Saul Rand has breath in his body, he will be doing everything he can to ensure that Morgen Campbell doesn’t win.

  FROM THE BOOK OF CYRUS (NEW ENGLISH VERSION, 3RD ED) CHAPTER 7:13–14

  13The faithful have no need of those who are blind to The Way. You owe them no obligation of brotherhood. 14The moral objective of any life is its own existence, for its own sake. Each soul is an end unto itself.

  ∞31∞

  TYSON

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  FEBRUARY 20, 1939

  There’s something eerie about an empty auditorium, and that’s even more true for one as massive as Madison Square Garden. I’ve been here twice before, but it was always teeming with people. Now it’s practically deserted, and you can almost hear echoes from the crowds that came before. Aside from the man down on the ground floor, sweeping the aisles clear of debris from whatever event happened here last, I’m fairly certain that there are only two people in this building—myself and Lawrence Dennis.

  I’m not sure who put the phonograph into this closet. I suppose I could scroll back on the key and find out, but it’s really only a question of whether it was a member of Team Viper, an observer, or someone they hired or convinced to support their cause. I suppose it could even be Lawrence Dennis at some earlier point in time. The only difference that makes is in terms of style points, however, and Kiernan is right on that count. The game is over, and the war is on.

  I press my back against the wall and wait in the shadows just outside the balcony storage closet. A computer tablet is clutched in my hands, and I’ve queued up the slideshow of information I asked RJ to put together from the protected archives. My first choice is to convince Lawrence Dennis t
hat he should leave tonight and walk out on his new alliance with the Cyrists and the Bund, but I suspect that won’t happen. He doesn’t strike me as easily persuadable. If persuasion fails, however, the wax cylinder that contains the recording of the explosion will be blinking out with me.

  When Lawrence Dennis steps out of the closet, I step out of the shadows. The light is still dim, but at least he’ll realize someone is here before I speak.

  Or not. He turns toward the stairwell without even looking my way. “Excuse me. Mr. Dennis?”

  He jumps back, bumping his shoulder on the wall, his expression the very image of someone caught red-handed. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Tyson Reyes,” I say. “You answered a rather impertinent question that I asked at a book signing a few years back. It’s a question that would actually fit the current situation quite well. Except . . . I know why you’re here. I’ve come to tell you the consequences—both immediate and long term—of your actions tonight. Three people will die at the Bund rally because of what you just did. A woman and two little girls will be crushed in that stairwell when the crowd panics. This time next year, they’ll hold a memorial for them here, and an angry man will severely injure Charles Lindbergh and then shoot himself to protest the wrongful prosecution of his friends for the deaths at the Bund rally. Lindbergh will drop out of his Senate race to ensure the safety of his wife and kids, and he won’t enter politics again.”

  I’m being selective with my information here. Lindbergh never enters politics after World War II in our timeline, either. But I’m not looking to give the man a full history lesson. I’m trying to make him do the right thing, and I’m willing to use half truths to get there.

  “How would you know the consequences of anything . . . short or long term? I don’t know what you’ve been told, but there’s nothing the slightest bit dangerous in that room.”

  “It’s the reaction to the sound that will be dangerous. People will push toward the exit because they believe there’s a bomb. And then a man will stop dead in his tracks at the base of the stairs because he sees someone with a gun. Someone who is out to kill . . . or more likely, in my opinion, simply scare, a journalist that everyone on the roster of speakers at tonight’s event has fallen afoul of at one time or another, since she has a low tolerance for fascism. As for how I know all of this . . .” I place my CHRONOS key in the palm of my hand and jump forward thirty seconds.

  As I expected, he doesn’t look entirely surprised. He saw me blink out after his book signing. The only change is that this time I blink back in.

  Remembering his demand to hold the key when we were in the alley behind Café Society, I tuck the medallion back inside my shirt. “That was a very short time jump,” I say. “I can go much farther, however. The last time you saw me use this device, after your book signing, I was heading back to the twenty-fourth century. I know what this country will be like in 1960. You’ll know that, as well . . .” I stop, trying to remember when he dies in this timeline. “At least, I’m pretty sure you will. You do in my timeline. It’s really not much like the exhibits at the World’s Fair, although they’ve gotten the number of cars about right. You won’t make it to 1990, or 2060, or other times I’ve seen, but you will see some measure of progress before you die. Capitalism adapts and survives for a time, waxing and waning until it eventually becomes irrelevant, although that’s long after you’re gone. Fascism has its occasional heyday, too, and the nationalism you keep pushing tends all too often to be white nationalism. Eventually, racism morphs into something less toxic, but it never entirely vanishes, because it’s an unfortunate element of human nature that some people tend to revert to when things are rough. In my time, though, people like you and me? We’re the norm.”

  “How long did you practice that pretty speech, Future Boy?” Dennis asks. “I’m guessing you’ve been running it around in your head all day, trying to figure out what you could say that might convince me.”

  He’s right, of course, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

  “Let me ask you this, though,” he continues. “What’s in it for you? Why do you give a damn one way or the other whether that woman and her daughters die? Is one of the little girls your great-great-grandmother, and you’re traveling back in time to save her? Doesn’t make sense to me, because if you’re really from the future, we’re all dead to you anyway.”

  “It really doesn’t matter to me,” I say. “I’m going to prevent their deaths either way. But the deaths of those two little girls will haunt you. And you’ll always have this niggling doubt as to whether you were at fault for Lindbergh’s injury and the fallout that follows from it. I’m just giving you the chance to have a hand in fixing it. Bring me the cylinder from the phonograph. I don’t know if you have any role in the attack on Dorothy Thompson, but you’ll probably sleep better over the years if you stop it. She has a son. And seriously . . . Coughlin and the Cyrists? You called Coughlin a hypocrite back in 1936. He hasn’t changed one bit. Have you?”

  I hold his gaze for several seconds. There’s a good deal of skepticism in his eyes, along with some low-level anger, and a glint of devious curiosity.

  “I could bring you the recording,” he says eventually. “Or I could just take that device from you and see all these things you’ve been talking about for myself.”

  “You could try. But I’m younger, in better shape, and armed. You wouldn’t win, and even if you did, it’s keyed to my genetic signature. Mr. Dennis, my only reason for coming here is to give you a chance to change something you’re going to regret. Otherwise, you’re going to feel a twinge of guilt every time you look at your own two daughters.”

  I don’t know if that’s true. It’s entirely possible that Lawrence Dennis is, at his core, the kind of jerk that he likes to project. He might be the kind of man who would simply view those two little girls as collateral damage. But I still can’t help but wonder how much he was shaped by his determination to pass as white in a society that would have never listened to him if they’d known the truth about his race. That’s what pushes me to extend the benefit of the doubt, whether or not he deserves it.

  After a long moment, he takes several steps back into the storeroom and removes the wax cylinder with the recording of the explosion. When he comes back into the seating area, he hands it to me.

  “I have now done my part to keep the two little girls and their mother safe,” he says. “I’m not in charge of the deal with the Thompson woman. That’s Pelley’s bunch of soldier boys. But I do think she needs something to shake her up a bit. As for Coughlin, I was right. He is a hypocrite. That hasn’t changed. But I’ve spoken with the actual leader of the Cyrists, and I think his movement has potential. We need a civic religion to tie us together in a common cause. In fact, I’m considering reentering the ministry.”

  “This leader of the Cyrists you’ve spoken with is a murderer,” I say. “Just in case you want to factor that into your career plans.”

  I think I see a tiny flicker of doubt, but then Dennis shrugs. “Caesar. Nero. Hitler. Alexander the Great. Stalin. Roosevelt.” He nods down at the massive painting at the front of the auditorium. “Even Washington himself, if you take the British point of view. Every political leader throughout history has been called a murderer. Why should this Cyrus fellow be any different?”

  “Well, for one thing, he’s supposed to be a religious leader, not a political leader.”

  Dennis considers it for a moment, then shakes his head. “Not much difference, as I see it. Thanks for the glimpse into my hopefully slightly less guilt-ridden future. As for the rest, I make my own decisions. Chances are, I’ll live to regret most of them. Chances are, so will you.”

  Dennis nods and backs off toward the staircase. His last point is one that I can’t really argue with, so I just let him go.

  I don’t entirely trust him not to pop back up and try to take the key, however, so I quickly pull up the library stable point in Bethesda
2136. It shows the same checklist as before, but with several new additions:

  Three Bund deaths & Lindbergh attempt prevented

  Court of Peace bombing prevented

  Tomonaga mugging prevented

  Attack on ambassador prevented

  Manhattan Project begins on schedule

  December 7—Japan bombs Pearl Harbor

  December 8—US declares war

  TIMELINE RESTORED!!

  I can’t help but grin, even though I’m guessing that conclusion at the end is a generalization. It’s hard for me to see how Saul’s actions promoting the Cyrists could have no impact on the timeline, and as Alex pointed out earlier, we still have to find a way to block Team Viper. Given Saul’s stunt with their observers, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already planning their next moves.

  But it’s progress. I’ll take it. And as I blink in, I send up a silent prayer that we’ll have at least a short time to enjoy it before hell breaks loose again.

  FROM THE BOOK OF CYRUS (NEW ENGLISH VERSION, 3RD ED) CHAPTER 7:15–16

  15If evil is done unto you, the fault lies within your own weakness. The strong cannot be victims. 16Those too weak to demand their blessings do not deserve them. A plentiful store awaits all who follow The Way.

  ∞32∞

  MADI

  SKANEATELES, NEW YORK

  SEPTEMBER 3, 1966

  When I pull up the stable point for noon on September 3rd, which is the time Jack and I agreed upon last night, I find a note propped up on the coffee table. I expect to see the same words as last time, telling me to meet him at the dock. But instead, it reads:

  Library stable point is a trap.

  Bombing wasn’t prevented.

  Happened at British Pavilion instead.

  Clio went back to fix it. I have to do what I can.

  I love you. ~ Jack

  The note and the fact that Jack isn’t there don’t make any sense for a moment, but then I remember the hypospray. I scroll backward slowly . . . trying not to worry. He can’t have been erased. If he had been, the note wouldn’t be there. Or would it? Clio said something about this house being under a CHRONOS field at one point, so . . .