by Rysa Walker
The ostensible purpose of these team meetings is to go around and discuss our most recent jump and whatever project is next on the horizon. It’s a way of sharing “best practices and lessons learned,” as the old saying goes. A core of regulars is always here, but there are usually three or four floaters, as we call them, who specialize in subfields that cut across continents or eras, like Rich and music history.
Everyone in this room has dealt with Saul before, and it’s a fairly safe bet that he’ll get his way. He almost always does. Some of it is seniority. He’s thirty-one, which means he has only a few more years left in the field. But it’s also his connections. And his bulldoggish tenacity.
“In addition,” Saul continues, “my training jump with Oakley was on the schedule before Richard’s new project was approved. So even if we weren’t prioritizing training, we’d need to reschedule the other jump instead of mine.”
“Or,” I say, “we could take the simpler route, rather than messing with a jump schedule that is determined weeks in advance, and you could skip this second Memphis jump. You were added to our project after it started. I doubt you’ll get much more from it than what’s covered in the newspapers from the era or in the accounts we’ll bring back.”
Katherine gives me an annoyed look across the table. Normally, I would have stayed out of it. True, I don’t like Saul, and I’m also still a bit pissed about his role in getting me bounced from the rally during our last jump, although I suspect Saul thinks he did me a favor by sticking Rich with my Q&A sessions. But my animosity isn’t strong enough that I really care one way or the other whether Saul tags along. I am a bit concerned that he might get in the way of me chatting with the six robed and hooded men who will be hanging around outside the Coliseum before the concert begins. But my key reason for speaking up is that I know Rich won’t do it, because he doesn’t want Katherine angry at him.
Personally, I think that’s a mistake. Katherine seems to be angry at Saul a lot, but she’s still attracted to the guy. Right now, I think she’s mostly indifferent to Rich, and I suspect that’s worse than anger.
Saul’s nose pinches slightly at my suggestion that he drop the next Memphis jump. I guess that’s supposed to be his wounded expression. But anyone who knows him—okay, anyone who knows him and isn’t Katherine—can tell it’s fake.
“The committee felt that my expertise would contribute to the project,” he says. “To be honest, I’m still not clear why I wasn’t added when the proposal was being written, since it’s very obviously within my subfield. That’s water under the bridge now, but having missed one of the jumps already, I’m not willing to miss a second one. And Oakley needs the field hours. The rest of you will just have to deal with a short delay. Training comes first.”
Delia Morrell slowly lifts one perfectly arched brow, and several of the other historians look like they’re fighting back a laugh. Saul Rand has bitched and moaned about every trainee he’s been assigned. He complained about Grant Oakley, the trainee whose rights he’s now defending, at our very last scrum, arguing that he had a full schedule on the upcoming jump to 1911 Atlanta and couldn’t afford to be saddled with a noob.
Grant, the noob in question, must be feeling a bit of whiplash from Saul’s sudden change of heart. He keeps quiet, though. That’s almost always the best course of action as a trainee, especially when you’re still trying to figure out the power dynamics in the room.
“He has a full two-week training session coming up with me and Abel next month,” Delia says. “Grant could always do this Atlanta project later, as a solo.”
Delia and her husband, Abel Waters, are two of the oldest members of our current group of thirty-six field agents. She’s been in the field for nearly fifteen years. I think Abel came in with the class right after hers. They’ve got maybe two more years in the field before they end up taking jobs like Angelo’s, stuck behind a desk, overseeing jump committees and training schedules. I’ve only known of two historians who lasted twenty years in the field. By around age thirty, ability with the CHRONOS key starts to deteriorate. That’s one reason we start fieldwork at sixteen.
I preferred my training jumps with Rich. He has a more relaxed style, and we hit it off on a personal level. But to be honest, Delia and Abel taught me more. That’s true of Abel in particular. There are a lot of unwritten rules on how to navigate society as a black male any time before the mid-twenty-first century. Abel helped me learn how to blend in and avoid making waves, something that’s harder for him, strictly on a physical level, because he cuts a more imposing figure. When Abel Waters walks into a room here in CHRONOS, everybody pays attention. He’s six five and powerfully built, dwarfing most people in the present or the past. He doesn’t back down from an argument, either. But put him in the 1930s South, and he is capable of shrinking, fading into the wallpaper. It’s a survival mechanism that serves him well and allows him to observe the culture without inserting himself into it. He usually takes the role of Delia’s driver, and it’s almost like he’s a different person . . . He’s so convincing that you’d swear the man had somehow lost a few inches of height when he landed in the past. If Abel Waters had been delivering that chicken box to the courthouse, I suspect he’d have walked right past Scoggin and his buddy without attracting their attention in the slightest.
Saul ignores Delia and nods toward the calendar hovering over the center of the table. “There are three empty slots a week from Thursday. If we get one other person to agree to a schedule change, we can just bump the 1966 trip to the ninth. Kathy has a jump she can move forward. I’m sure Rich and Cham—sorry,” he says, looking not at me, but rather at Katherine. “Tyson. I’m sure Richard and Tyson have a jump they can swap out.”
Rich curses under his breath. It’s barely audible, but almost everyone is now looking at the two of us, and I’m guessing at least a few of them can read the words on his lips. He doesn’t protest, though. He knows we’re beaten.
Rich says that he has some Q&A sessions he can get out of the way, and I tell Angelo that I can move my 1965 jump forward. Angelo looks relieved, but also a little annoyed. He doesn’t like seeing Saul win any more than the rest of us.
Saul leans back, clearly pleased with the outcome. I’m not sure he really cares one way or the other which jump he does first. He just likes sticking it to Richard. I think maybe he also just likes to win.
While I didn’t want Saul to win, either, I’m kind of okay with the switch. I’ve been looking forward to hearing Dr. King speak in person for years, and my mind has been replaying my conversation with Antoinette Robinson since we got back from Memphis the other day. Part of the reason I keep thinking about her is purely physical. She’s damn pretty and I’m as susceptible as the next guy. But it’s also the oddness of having her remember something that hasn’t happened yet for me. It feels like a loose thread, and my mind keeps tugging at it. The sooner I get my life back into some semblance of chronological order the better.
Our usual routine after these team meetings is to head over to the Objectivist Club for lunch. It’s only a couple of blocks from CHRONOS headquarters, and even though it’s a few credits more than lunch in the cafeteria or from the food units in our living quarters, there’s a general consensus that we deserve something out of the ordinary as a consolation prize for the hour or two of tedium we’ve just endured.
Or at least that’s the story that we’d give Angelo or the board if they ever asked. But they were CHRONOS agents at one time, and I suspect the after-scrum lunch was a tradition back then, too. The actual team meeting goes on the books. It’s official, recorded into the archives, and, therefore, there are some things we just don’t talk about in that setting. Screwups, for example, that escaped official notice but might be good for the others to know so they don’t make the same mistakes. Sometimes there’s a funny story that you just don’t want included in the record. It’s also a good chance for newer historians to ask for advice without looking like total neophytes.
> Richard, however, is not in the mood to socialize today. He watches the others head for the elevator. “You go ahead. I’ll grab something at the cafeteria.” Then he adds in a lower voice, “I’ve had enough of people for one day.”
“Then you should steer clear of the cafeteria. It’s right at noon.”
Even though there are only thirty-six active agents at CHRONOS, more than five hundred people work here as analysts and support staff. Our food units in the living quarters can make anything on the menu at the cafeteria, so the only reason to go downstairs is because you want to be around people.
Rich shrugs, making it clear that it’s less people in general than certain people he’d prefer to avoid. “Good point. Guess I’ll just head up to the room and grab something from the kitchen.”
He punches the button to go up.
“Hey, wait,” I say, “who should I ask about 1960s-era cars? Not driving them, but how they work. And don’t say the archivists. I don’t have an official reason for researching it and would prefer not to raise questions. It’s for the Ohio jump.”
I’d given Rich a brief overview of my conversation with Toni Robinson after we returned from the last trip, partly because I wanted to talk about it, but also because it was kind of bugging me. This isn’t quite the same as crossing your own path, which is a training exercise everyone has to do where you go back in time and have a conversation with yourself. The whole point of that exercise is to convince you that you never want to cross your own path again if you can avoid it, because it’s really not worth the headache or the possibility that you’ll upchuck your last meal. In this case, though, it’s more of a nagging feeling, like things aren’t sequential.
“Wouldn’t be the first time one of us developed an interest outside his field,” Rich says. “The archivists probably wouldn’t bat an eye. If you mean one of us, though . . . Timothy, maybe. Or Evelyn. They did one long project in the late 1950s, and they’ve got that JFK thing coming up. I’m guessing one of them has basic mechanical knowledge in case they break down on the side of the road. But you’re overthinking this, Tyce. Like I told you the other night, whatever you did to help that family out was something you already knew how to do.”
“You think,” I say. “You said you’re not certain.”
“I’m reasonably certain.” The elevator opens and he steps inside. “I mean, theoretically, it would have to be, right? Of course, if you’re really curious, you could always ask Angelo.”
Rich grins and gives me a wave as the elevator door slides shut.
He knows damn well I’m not going to ask Angelo. That would immediately lead Angelo to ask why I wanted to know, and the odds are good that the jump would get canceled. Just to be on the safe side. Someone else would no doubt help Toni’s father with whatever was wrong with the family car. History would unfold exactly as it was intended to without me there to observe it.
I’ll end up with a double memory if that happens. Not the end of the world, but also not pleasant. My bigger concern, though, is that Antoinette Robinson, who is not under a CHRONOS field, will no longer have any memory of me at all. I know it’s kind of egotistical, but that bothers the hell out of me.
The main room at the Objectivist Club is worlds apart from the brightly lit, modern cafeteria at work or the nineteenth-century vibe that Campbell has going up in Redwing Hall. Here, the tables are scattered in small groups inside an atrium that looks more like a park than a restaurant, with greenways and a stream running through the center. The ceiling shows a clear blue sky today, far more pleasant than the actual, rather dreary gray outside. Should you find yourself in the mood for a bit of amusement after your meal—and willing to lose a month or two’s worth of credits—a state-of-the-art gaming center sits on the other side of the clubroom.
Most of the team is already at our usual cluster of tables when I get to the OC, although Timothy and Evelyn don’t seem to have arrived yet. I’m about to ask Delia and Abel if I can join them when Katherine waves me over to her table.
She’s alone. Otherwise, I’d have pretended I didn’t see her. Saul skips at least half of these after-meetings to hang out with Morgen Campbell, who doesn’t lunch down here with the commoners. The Redwing Room has human waiters and a license to serve real meat—which Morgen swears is far superior to the slaughter-free meat on the menu here in the main clubroom. I’ve had meat of all varieties on my jumps, and the lab-cultivated stuff tastes identical. I’m pretty sure Morgen just gets off on knowing something had to die to provide him with lunch.
So I join Katherine, reluctantly, hoping Saul isn’t in any hurry to come back. Although if she’s still pissed about me opposing him earlier, this won’t be a pleasant meal either way. She looks more worried than pissed, though.
I tap the center of the table to pull up the menu. “Did you already order?”
“No. I’m waiting on Saul. He said he’d only be a few minutes. Is Richard angry about the change?”
I briefly consider telling her that I don’t know, but I opt for the truth instead. “Yeah, he’s pissed. With good reason, too. He’s the lead researcher on this project, and Saul is screwing up the schedule. If he had a conflict, he shouldn’t have asked to join.”
Katherine frowns, looking down at the table. “That was my fault. I should have just told Rich no in the first place, but it sounded interesting, and—”
“Then why should you have said no? Does Saul control your professional life, too?”
Her blue eyes flash, and I’m afraid I’ve gone too far. But then she gives me a tired smile. “You’ve never been in a serious relationship, have you, Tyson?”
I stare at her over my water glass without answering. Katherine is only two years older than I am, so this wise-elder act isn’t cutting it with me.
But she ignores my expression and continues. “Making a commitment to someone involves a lot of compromises. Saul tends to be a bit on the jealous side—although to be fair, so am I. Anyway, he thinks . . .” She pauses, a slight blush rising to her cheeks. “He thinks Richard has a thing for me. I’ve told him that’s ridiculous. Richard and I have been friends for going on ten years. Since the first day we started classes. But Saul is really insecure—”
I snort. It’s an automatic response, because that’s just garbage.
“It’s true!” Katherine protests. “I’m sure it doesn’t seem that way, but you don’t know him like I do. Believe it or not, you really hurt his feelings today.”
The center of the table slides back to deliver my lunch. I’m glad for the diversion, because it helps me fight back laughter at the idea that anything I said might wound someone with an ego as big as Saul’s. I take a bite of my lasagna and then say, “Listen. I’m sorry if I hurt his feelings, but he kind of asks for it. And I really don’t want to debate the merits of Saul Rand over lunch.”
She’s silent for a moment, and I think that’s the end of it. But then she heaves an angry sigh and the words come spilling out. “Of course, you don’t. Because then you’re free to continue to judge me without any context. To think that I’m weak-minded enough to let Saul manipulate me.”
“I don’t think—”
“Yes. You do. I’m not a fool, Tyson. I can tell what people think. Even Richard. But I know Saul. I know what he’s been through, and how far he’s come. His family . . .” She lowers her voice. “They’re awful. His parents are dead now, but they both lobbied to pull the Americas out of the IGAA.”
The International Genetic Alterations Accords of 2218 were the global compromise reached after a century of rampant on-demand genetic modification. Widespread genetic alteration had produced a deeply divided world, where children of the elite were guaranteed a higher IQ, greater physical strength, and even a longer life span. The unaltered masses, frustrated at having to compete equipped with only what nature provided, eventually rebelled, launching the Genetics War. They’d never have stood a chance in defeating the genetically enhanced minority if not for the fact that a siza
ble portion of the enhanced had begun to realize that things were getting out of hand. Even so, it took nearly a century of starts and stops, regional agreements, and global tension before nations came together as one to try to find middle ground.
The first generation of children conceived after the Accords was altered to remove all germ-line—inheritable—enhancements. As a compromise, each child would be allowed one—and only one—chosen gift. This was a somatic alteration, something that couldn’t be inherited by their offspring. In the years immediately after the Accords were signed, gifts were distributed by lottery, based on the needs of society and tied to the job the child would eventually hold. Children assigned as mathematicians would be given a genetic boost to improve not just their ability in the field, but also their passion for the job. There would be no glut of artists and no lack of teachers. All jobs would pay the same basic income, and each child would be perfectly suited for his or her job.
All in all, things are better since the Accords, but there were problems from the outset. It might have worked better if they’d redistributed financial assets a bit more aggressively at the same time. But that was a sticking point in the negotiations. The prevailing argument—pushed rather effectively by those who held the bulk of the wealth—was that it would be enough simply to ensure that money wasn’t a determining factor in the next generation’s success. The chosen-gift system did level the playing field considerably, but parents still passed a percentage of their wealth down to their children, along with their ideas about which jobs were more prestigious.
And with extra money in the hands of the few, corruption gradually crept into the system. While the list of allowable chosen gifts has remained fairly stable, the method for allocating those jobs has changed considerably. In my grandparents’ era, a small bribe meant that you might get first crack at the list before all of the best gifts, the ones that carried some level of social status, were taken. By the time my parents were born, a bribe was required to get anything that most people considered prestigious, and the rules on inherited modifications began to relax. If someone was an artist, they reasoned, it only made sense that they’d want at least some of that talent to be passed on to their offspring.