by Rysa Walker
“No.” I take the right lens out and toss it into the bag. “I have another pair in my pocket. So what’s this theory you mentioned?”
“Let’s get you patched up first, and then I’ll let Alex explain it.”
Once the cut is clean and bandaged, she pulls back her sleeve and taps something on her wrist. A small holoscreen recording pops up, showing her next to an ancient computer. I’ve never seen one that old, even inside a museum, just pictures in books. The label at the top of the screen is very familiar, however—Anomalies.
“This kicked on right after the time shift,” the girl on the holoscreen says. “I’m guessing you’ve seen something similar, since you knew to go to Montgomery 1965, so I won’t belabor the point. I’ll just turn things over to Alex.” She nods toward one of the two guys, who is sitting in front of a more modern system. It’s still far behind anything at CHRONOS, but at least it’s recognizable.
The guy gives me a perfunctory nod and then begins demonstrating a bunch of tiny globes on the display, which he says are graphic representations depicting chronotron pulses coming from the Metro-Washington area. “These orange bubbles are Madi. Note the clear bubbles. We don’t know what the hell those are, but . . .” He zooms out on the screen and selects a quadrant labeled 2300. The section he pulls up includes several globes that are exactly the same color I see with the CHRONOS key. “You’ll notice we have another cluster here. And here. Those both seem to correspond to the jumps you took on the days that Martin Luther King and John Lennon were killed in this timeline. Note that this is just a graphic representation, something that I put together so I could visualize it. When you look at this in two dimensions—or as a wave—it’s barely perceptible.”
He’s right. I can’t see anything different when he flattens the display.
“Again, I don’t know what these things are or where they’re coming from. I’m certain that I’m working with really primitive equipment compared to what you have in 2304, however, so maybe you could get your people to look into this. My best guess is that something or someone was . . . well, piggybacking on your signal.” He puts the display back to 3-D. “Or maybe a better analogy would be that they’re caught in your wake. Because if you turn the globes this way, you can see the clear side is stretched out a bit. I don’t know what that means, but again . . . something you should probably mention to your technical crew. It’s possible that it represents a slight distortion in the field to keep them from jumping in while you’re still at the stable point, but that’s just a guess. And what kind of worries me is that even if you reverse these changes, we don’t know where or when these people are coming from or how they managed to get in. Which means there’s a hole that somebody really needs to get to work on patching.”
Madi cuts the video. “Did that make sense to you?”
“Kind of?” I say. “You’re really Madison Grace? I pictured you as older.”
She sniffs, and seems to be holding back another sneeze. “I’ll be older at some point. At least, I hope so. Listen, there’s a lot of stuff that I’m not going to go into. Like I said before, it could cause problems.”
“I’m the one from your future. I should be giving the spoilers speech.”
“Maybe. But here’s the thing. You’re from 2304. How many historians are at CHRONOS then? Thirty-six, right?”
I nod. “Yeah. Thirty-six active agents. There are others working in research and archives, but they’ve retired from the field.”
“So it’s a small enough group that you know them all, then, right?”
I nod again.
“Let’s just say I have some ancestors in that group. Several ancestors. If the course of their lives changes, I won’t exist. And since I seem to be the one who creates this damn key, that could mean CHRONOS doesn’t exist, and therefore—”
“None of the historians exist,” I say. “No CHRONOS, so no CHRONOS gene. Got it. But there’s a huge conundrum right smack in the center of that claim, Madison. Several of them, in fact.”
She gives me a grim smile. “It’s Madi. And what would time travel be without conundrums? If you think you’re confused, imagine stumbling across this thing, having it dump you into the freaking ocean in 1906, and then discovering you—or at least some version of you, in some timeline—created the damn thing a few decades from now.” She waves a hand. “Or rather, a few decades from my now. That’s all been in the past two weeks for me.”
I’m quiet for a moment, because she’s gone above and beyond by getting me patched up and hidden, and I really don’t want to offend her. But the question has to be asked.
“You’ve just started using the key, and suddenly we have a time shift. Has it occurred to you that—”
“That I’m the cause? Of course. In fact, I was convinced it was entirely my fault until we noticed those odd deviations in the chronotron pulses, which seem to be people hitchhiking on our signals. Not just mine, but yours, too. And now you have someone who we know doesn’t have the CHRONOS gene in the other timeline popping in to murder people. I’m not sure how my jumps could have affected either of those things. That’s based on less than two weeks of practical experience, however, combined with Alex’s theoretical background.”
“So the two guys in the video are your partners?”
“One of them. The other is a friend. My second official partner had his memory wiped in the time shift. He’s Alex’s cousin, but the main reason he was pulled in was because he was married to Lorena, the geneticist I mentioned. She and their daughter don’t exist in this timeline. Lorena and the baby were under a CHRONOS field when it happened. He wasn’t, so he’s off somewhere, totally oblivious to the fact that he has a wife and child.”
I have a ton of questions, but when I open my mouth to ask them, she cuts me off.
“Let’s focus on fixing the timeline. We can figure out the rest of it later.”
She nods toward the bag. “There’s an apple in there. Some crackers, too, if the nausea comes back. I have to go. The last thing we need is for me to sneeze and give your position away. Your gun is in the bag, but . . . you’re not going to be able to see well enough to use it.”
“You skipped ahead and checked?”
“Yes. I’ll be back at 9:22.” She looks slightly ill at the thought.
“Do you think you can do it?” I ask.
“Do I have a choice?”
Even though the weather isn’t especially warm, the attic is stifling. My head throbs miserably, and I’d like nothing more than to curl up on the floor and sleep. All it would take is one loud snore to give me away, but if that were going to happen, Madi would have seen it, right?
All thoughts of a nap vanish, however, as soon as I hear Campbell’s voice floating up from below.
“. . . other three. More than that is overkill. Pun definitely intended.”
Someone laughs, although it sounds a bit forced to me. I’ve heard this kind of laugh before from the lackeys who hang around Morgen at the OC hoping he drops a few crumbs their way. Maybe if they laugh at his stupid jokes, he’ll grant them access to the members-only rooms. More gaming credits. A high-status job once they’re no longer in the field. It’s the laugh you put on for the boss, so I have no doubt who’s in charge here.
The attic-door hinge creaks loudly, and then I hear the sound of the ladder scraping across the closet floor. I tap my eardisk. It doesn’t respond at first, and it’s still hard to navigate any sort of visual interface, but I finally get the thing set to record, and then shift slightly so that I can peek through a gap between the boxes. My line of sight is poor, but at least I’ll have the audio. If nothing else, Angelo should be able to run a voice analysis to show that it’s Campbell.
The first thing I see is the faint purple glow from their CHRONOS keys, followed by the barrel of the rifle, and then a man’s head and shoulders. He pulls himself up and moves aside for Campbell to follow. It takes a bit more effort for Campbell. Once he’s in the attic, they both crouch down and head toward t
he window.
“You really think this location will work?” Campbell says, peering through the slats. “There’s a lot of tree cover. I still think the other place—”
“Maybe,” the other guy says reluctantly. “I just worry about being out in the open like that. If it was only a shot or two, a rooftop might be okay, but it’s kind of risky when I’m taking out this many. Especially when you’re being picky about my targets. If it was King and some random people . . .”
“Just a matter of precision. Do you want to get docked for unintended consequences again?”
“No,” the guy says. “That’s why I think this location is better, though. And see, it’s a pretty straight line to where they’ll place that stage they’re building.”
“Fine,” Campbell says. “You’re the marksman. It’s your call.”
The second guy pulls out his key and sets a stable point. “Are you going to be up here?”
“We’ll meet back at the hotel after,” Campbell says. “I want to be down where the action is. And if you shoot me, I will absolutely haunt your ass.”
The other guy snorts. “No worries. You’re the one with the strategy skills. I can’t win this on my own.”
Campbell gives him a little nod of admission. “We make a good team, Bailey. Leave the gun and let’s go get a beer.”
“Do you think this will flip it?” Bailey asks as he props the gun against the wall.
“Unlikely. I’m fairly certain it will take both events. But the other one should be easy. And even if it doesn’t flip, I think we’ll win this round on points alone. If we take Lennon out in ’57, there’s no way Rand’s team can do it in ’66.”
I center the key in my hand and try to pull up the jump room again. It’s an improvement over an hour ago. I can see the platform, can even make out Angelo standing on the other side. But I still can’t lock it in.
Should I get the gun? It’s tempting, but in the end, it seems like a bad idea. It will tip this Bailey guy off that someone has been here. Given that he has a CHRONOS key, he can blink out and get another gun. If he pans around the stable point carefully, he might even realize it’s gone before he jumps in. So, the gun stays against the wall, taunting me.
I stash the key back in its case and manage to doze intermittently. But that last bit that Campbell said keeps circling in my mind.
Teams. Rounds. Points.
He’s treating this like a game of time chess. Just without the damn simulator this time.
And apparently Saul Rand is playing, too.
FROM TEMPORAL DILEMMA USER’S GUIDE, 2ND ED. (2293)
While there are many variations, a standard TD game consists of two rounds of play for each team or individual player. In each round, you are allowed five moves in one or more of the categories. Game play is sequential, with opening play determined by virtual coin toss. The first team or player to flip the timeline wins. Their opponent may, however, use any remaining move(s) to undo that change to the timeline.
Most games do not end with a temporal change. This is true in individual play, but even more frequently when competing as a team. In such cases, victory is determined by the player or team amassing the most points. For a full listing of points, please see Appendix A (Game Points) and Appendix B (Style Points).
∞26∞
MADI
MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA
MARCH 24, 1965
To his credit, Tyson Reyes does try to take the shot. He points his gun at the sniper at 9:21. He takes aim and very nearly pulls the trigger. I’m thankful for the gesture, for his attempt to keep me from having to do it, although I can tell that his aim is off, just by watching through the key. In the end, he realizes it’s too big a risk and pulls the gun back down at almost the same instant I blink in.
Would he have tried the shot if I hadn’t told him he failed? Alex says no, and he’s probably right, since I watched the events play out both before and after telling him, and the outcome was the same.
I’ve watched the rest of the scene through a stable point half a dozen times now. Jack watched it, as well. I can’t help feeling that the only reason I’m able to even contemplate doing this, to contemplate blinking in and ending someone’s life with the press of a button, is because I’ve seen myself do it over and over again. Alex says that’s nonsense, too. He claims my decision to act is what sets the event in motion, and I must have already decided to do it, already been determined to press that button, or I couldn’t see myself doing it through the key.
He’s probably right. I just know that’s how it feels.
I will have less than a second before the man notices the glow of my key. I don’t know if the light is reflected somehow, if he catches it in his peripheral vision, or if it’s just that vague sense that someone is behind you. Watching. Whatever the reason, he turns, and that’s when I press the button that kills him.
Yes, I’m doing this to save the lives of the people on that field. To save the lives of those who die in the extension of a war that was already senseless, and to save those who are erased, even though I know I’m erasing all of those people who are listed in the files under Additions.
I, Madison E. Grace, being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare myself God almighty. Judge, jury, and executioner.
An overstatement, perhaps, but it feels like I’m veering way out of my lane on this one. But as I said to Tyson earlier, Do I have a choice? That final diary entry of Kate’s springs to mind again, with her caution to change what I can and not spend the rest of my life questioning my actions. I hope I’m able to follow that advice.
Jack has been watching me stand here, staring at the key, trying to work up my nerve, for the past few minutes. I lean over and give him a quick kiss.
And then I lock the stable point.
Blink in.
Aim.
Fire.
There’s a popping noise, and the beam hits the man exactly where I’ve seen it hit every time—just above his left ear. He crumples and falls.
That much is a direct replay of what Jack and I watched through the key.
What we didn’t see, due to the position of his body, was his finger squeezing the trigger as he fell. I didn’t hear it, either, because some damn fool—possibly me or Alex—decided in the original variation of this timeline that we didn’t need an audio track.
It’s just one shot, and the barrel of the gun was shifting upward as he fell, so I can’t see how he could have hit anyone.
But the guards across the street will have heard that shot. Someone may even have seen the muzzle flash, given how many people are there. Either way, they’re going to come investigate.
I can blink out, but Tyson can’t. And that means he’s stuck up here with a dead body.
Tyson is clearly thinking the same thing. “Just go. If they take me in, I’ll manage to blink out later. Or CHRONOS will send an extraction team.” He doesn’t sound very confident on that last point. “There’s no reason for both of us to get caught up in this. Go.”
“The police aren’t our only concern, though, and you know it. Campbell could beat them here. He didn’t set a stable point, but the other guy could have given it to him. And he’d probably just kill you.”
I stare at the body lying at the other end of the attic for a moment. I’ve gotten this far without knowing his name or getting a clear look at his face. My hope was that keeping it vague would make it easier. Make it less likely that I would have the haunted dreams that Kate talked about.
There’s really only one option, now, and if Kate is right, this isn’t likely to improve my chances for restful sleep. I’m not even sure it will work.
I make my way toward the body, trying not to see the mangled flesh at the back of his head. Clenching my teeth, I reach inside his shirt and find the CHRONOS key. I yank, but it’s on a chain, so I have to pull it over his head.
Once I have it in my hand, I take a step back and the body vanishes. The gun is still on the floor, so they must have
picked it up locally.
“Where the hell did he go?” Tyson says. “And how did you know that would happen?”
“I didn’t know. It was a hunch, from something I read in one of the diaries I mentioned.” I shove the guy’s key into my pocket and grab the rifle. “And I don’t really know where his body went, but the only logical conclusion is that he didn’t exist in this timeline.”
“Then how was he here?”
“Maybe he was a splinter. Or he wasn’t under a CHRONOS field when the time shift happened.”
“No. I don’t think so. Not if they caused the time shift by killing King, Lennon, and the others. And they were talking about all of this like it’s a time-chess game.”
I’m scanning backward on my key as he talks, looking at the field at 9:23. Everyone is standing still, looking around. Probably trying to figure out if that was a gunshot or a car backfiring. James Baldwin is on the stage, looking nervous. He must make a joke, because the audience laughs, and then everything seems to go back to normal.
The military crowd doesn’t seem nearly as relaxed, though. Several of them are gathered at the gate. I scroll forward quickly and see that they’ll get the gate open in about two minutes, and then several dozen armed men will start combing the neighborhood. Knocking on doors. And I think someone must have seen the muzzle flash or else has a good ability to pinpoint where the sound came from, because this is one of the first houses they’ll hit.
“I need to get downstairs. They’re coming. I’ll tell them I saw someone hop off the roof.”
Tyson nods, wincing slightly at the movement. “Say he ran through the backyard toward . . . Council Street. That’s the one behind Stephens. Do you have time to scan this room first, though? We need to see if Campbell comes back. Because you’re right. He’s a bigger threat than the cops.”
Scanning quickly through the next fifteen minutes, the only persons in the attic are me and Tyson. “It’s clear. I’ll be back in a second.”
I take the normal exit, through the attic door, since I don’t have a stable point downstairs. None of the lights are on, and I toy with the idea of just staying quiet. But if they saw the shot being fired, that won’t work. So, I open the front door and wait on the porch. Across the street, the concert continues. I don’t know the singer or the song, but it’s something about freedom.