"No! I won't talk to them. They keep showing me images of someone who looks like my mom and this other guy, who is not my dad. Sutter got really angry and his eyes…" I shake my head and hold the purse tight against my chest. "No."
"Okay, okay. I get it. I'll ask for your things. Your pictures. But…you shouldn’t get your hopes up about the key."
"What key? The only key I have is to my house. I doubt it's still standing three centuries later, and if they want it, they can keep it.”
"I’m talking about the medallion. The thing that brought you here. Even those of us who were actually with CHRONOS didn't get to keep them, except when we were on assignment. Not that it really mattered, since we couldn’t use them without the equipment in the jump room. That’s part of the reason you have Sutter and everyone else so confused. Some of them are worried that you were able to bypass the safety and use the key without the jump apparatus. Some think you were just pulled in as a fluke, like Grant and a few of the other historians whose bodies they found in the wreckage. Either way, they’ve been keeping this room under a CHRONOS field, just as a precaution. They don’t know whether you exist outside of it.”
My mind flashes back to the other version of me, but I push the image away. “What do you mean…if I exist? I’m right here…how could I not exist?”
“This is the kind of thing you should be talking to them about, Prudence. I’m just a historian, and they—"
"No!" My heart is racing at the very thought of dealing with Sutter again. "If you bring them in, I won't even talk to you. I’ll…stop eating. I’ll…”
What else can I threaten given my current circumstances, short of peeing the bed?
I’m definitely not saying that.
“Please. Just please, please…no."
"Okay,” he says, his shoulders slumping a bit. “I won't mention it again. But would you answer a few questions for me? I’m curious. The school ID in your wallet said 1984, so you were born…?"
I hesitate, because I have a feeling anything I tell him will be reported to these CHRONOS people. But it’s probably unrealistic to assume they’ll let me stay here and never give them any information at all. And I’d rather talk to Tate than Freaky Eyes.
"In 1970. But…the school ID is old. Three years ago. If I’ve really been here as long as you say, then I guess I'm nearly eighteen now."
The lie is automatic, and it’s only afterward that I realize they may be able to tell my age with all of this fancy-schmancy medical equipment. I’m not even sure why I lied until I look back over at Tate. He’s my only ally, the only semi-bright spot in this insanity, and he said I was pretty, right? He might be more inclined to help me if he isn’t thinking of me as some dumb kid he dragged out of the rubble.
And…the lie was probably a waste of breath, because I don’t think he even heard what I said. His eyes are distracted, like he's working something out. "And you don't remember Richard? Richard Viers? He's the one who should have been jumping to 1970—well, 1969, actually. Katherine was scheduled for 1853, so they must have switched places. Maybe he was in on it. Saul always said Richard had a thing for Kathy."
"Why does everyone keep talking about this Richard and this Saul? I don’t know either of them!”
“Well…your DNA matches Saul’s. He and Kathy had been living together for about a year before the bombing. And the key you were carrying when I found you was the one assigned to Richard. The one he was using on his last jump.”
“I found this key in the attic, in an old box with stuff my mother collects. She has another one just like it in her jewelry box. The picture they showed me looks like her, but she was born a few years after World War II, not…in the future. And I don’t care what your stupid DNA says. My dad is James V. Pierce. He was born in 1940. Don't you people have historical records? Birth certificates, marriage licenses, stuff like that?"
"Sure,” he says. “But most of Kathy's documents—birth certificate, diploma, and so forth—were ones she adopted when she was stranded. She picked them from a safe deposit box that held identification papers for pretty much any time period after 1800. I can tell you what we have, though." He pulls a device that looks a lot like a smaller version of my Pop-Tart thingamajig out of his pocket and searches for something. I can't see a display from this angle, so it must be projected in front of his eyes like the books are for me. After a moment, he starts reading aloud. "Marriage to James V. Pierce in November 1969. Twin daughters, Prudence and Deborah, born 4 February, 1970. Remarried 1989 to Phillip N. Hatch—”
“Wait. Remarried? Why?”
He scans through for a moment, then says, “First husband died.”
My lips move, but no sound comes out, so I try again. “When?”
“Um…” His voice is a little hesitant. “1984. September 14th. Looks like it was a car acci—”
A scream drowns out his voice. I don’t even realize it’s coming from me until the attendants are in the room, holding me down.
2
CHRONOS MED TEMPORARY STATION
WASHINGTON, EC
December 31, 2305, 2:25 p.m.
“And that’s it,” the evil doctor says, smiling her evil smile. She nods once at the pale not-quite-human, not-quite-Stormtrooper therapy bot and it glides out of the room with a quiet whirring noise. “That’s your very last physical therapy session, Pru…well, your last one here. You’ll still need to visit the pods at the OC three times a week, and I’ll want to see you back here in one month to be sure there’s been no regression.”
The evil doctor’s name is Coralys Winston, and she’s only a few years older than I am. She has a friendly smile and smooth, dark hair, shot through with shiny reflecting streaks that change from day to day—gold or silver or sometimes whatever color matches her smock.
Okay, I’ll admit I don’t have solid proof that she’s evil. But she’s far too chipper and happy for someone whose job is to put her patients through hell or, technically, to give commands to the therapy bot while it puts her patients through hell. For the past few months, she has listened to my complaints, nodded politely, and then completely ignored every request, every scream of agony, saying that what I wanted—which was usually to crawl back into bed, or better yet, into that lovely, pain-free goop—really wasn’t in my “long-term best interests.” Her amber eyes are always sympathetic, but in a way that makes me want to smack her. Hard.
I don’t think I’d want her job, though. People curse at her, scream at her, and think wicked thoughts about how they’d like to see how long her ass would last with the therapy bot if her back, hip, and legs had been shattered. (At least, those are the thoughts I’ve sent her way each and every day.) But Coralys—who insists that I call her by her first name rather than Dr. Winston—always wears that cheery, encouraging, and quite possibly evil smile.
“Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure!” Her smile widens, but her eyes are a little wary now. “I guess I have a few minutes before I leave for the day.”
I’m pretty sure most of the CHRONOS med personnel wish I’d go back to not talking, because they don’t usually have answers for my questions and I have a lot of questions. But hey, if I’m really stuck in this time, like they seem to think, then I need to know how things work, right?
“First—and please don’t take this the wrong way—but how you can be so freaking perky after a day of torturing people? I mean, yes, it’s for their own good, but…doesn’t it wear you down?”
“Oh, no!” She looks genuinely appalled. This is the first time that I’ve seen her smile fade, and I feel a little guilty, like I’ve swatted down a butterfly.
“I love my work! I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Why? Are you unhappy with your progress? You’ve hit every target and even exceed—”
“No, no,” I assure her. “I just…wondered. It seems like it might be depressing. Do all of your patients hit their targets?”
“Well…no,” she admits. “Most of them do, thou
gh! And I can almost always tell if it’s because they really can’t handle it or if it’s because they just aren’t working hard enough. I’ve been doing this for nearly seven years…well, twelve if you count my training…and after a while, you just know.”
“How old are you?” I ask, thinking my earlier assessment of her age must be way off.
“Twenty-two.”
I guess my jaw flopping open telegraphs that I’m shocked, because she laughs. “It must be so strange for you. We studied early education systems in history class and…would I have even started my career yet?”
“I don’t think so. You might have started medical school, but I doubt you’d be dealing with patients.”
“I’m so glad I wasn’t born back then. I like our way much better.”
Their way, as I understand it, is a far more streamlined method of learning. While the brain is young and pliable, they chemically activate specific centers and put the kid in sort of a hypnotic state to accelerate the learning of basic facts pertinent to the field they’ll be entering. Because they already know the job the kid will have, even before she’s born.
“Did you ever think about doing something else?”
Coralys shakes her head, smiling. “Never. The job is part of who I am. I probably could shift over to doing something similar, but…this is my calling. I’m just lucky that there’s always a need for my skills.”
It’s not so much a calling as a genetic specification, from what Tate says. Before Coralys was born, her parents determined that she would go into medicine and probably even picked the subfield. Her “chosen gift,” that one genetic alteration that each child is allowed, was selected to ensure that she’d do well in her field.
Like Coralys, Tate’s parents decided he’d be a historian before he was born. They didn’t specify a subfield, so someone at CHRONOS decided he’d be studying the Vikings and gave him some extra tweaks that they thought might prove useful. Tate says they were a little too enthusiastic in some respects. Extra strength and stamina are helpful, but they went a little overboard. He has to rein it in when he’s in the field to keep from hurting people or making them suspicious.
Unfortunately for Tate, there really isn’t a use for his skills in a post-CHRONOS world, and they don’t translate very easily to a new profession. So he’ll be working at this new memorial museum they’re building. He looks forward to having something to do, but he’s under no illusions. Talking about Vikings isn’t the same as being there among them.
“Was there anything else?” Coralys asks.
“No. Except…thank you. I probably haven’t said that enough. I really didn’t think my legs would work again, and I do appreciate it.”
Even though I wanted to beat you to a bloody pulp every single day I’ve been here.
I don’t actually say that last bit out loud, and truthfully, I’m not feeling that way at all right this minute. But I definitely did feel that way before.
“The hard work was all on your part, Prudence. I’m so excited that you get to start your new year on your own two feet, outside of the med center! Just keep up the exercises so that you stay limber, okay? And I’ll transfer the release docs to your comm and also your appointment time for our follow-up.”
“Um…I don’t have a comm?” I hold up my right arm and twist it so that she can see both sides are bare, minus the tattoo-ey things everyone uses to store data and communicate. “I should have one in a few weeks, once they get my credits set up.”
They’re not really tattoos, at least not like the permanent kind. They stick to your skin but you can peel them off when you want to upgrade to a new model. And I really do want one. Music, books, videos. It’s basically one of the Pop-Tart devices, except it goes everywhere you do.
“Okay,” Coralys says, her voice doubtful. “I guess we’ll print your papers out, assuming I can find someone who knows how to do that. We’ll get it finished while you’re packing up your things.”
I nod, thinking that she’d have to twitch her nose and produce those papers by witchcraft in order to finish before I’m done packing up my things. I have my purse, a few sets of clothes that were made for me in this weird closet thing on the third floor, and my shattered Walkman, which still doesn’t work. One of the headphone wires is broken and no one has batteries. There’s also a box that once contained chocolate from Tate, and a note apologizing for dropping the bomb on me like that about Dad. Another note from someone named Anya Shaw, who is apparently my grandmother. Something that looks like a beer stein, which I initially thought had been sent to the wrong room, since it has the initials OC on the side and the card was signed by M. Campbell. Tate says it really was intended for me, however, sent by the owner of the club where I’ll be living once I check out of this place.
Twenty minutes after I have everything packed up, Tate arrives. He is, unfortunately, accompanied by Sutter, who I now know as head of CHRONOS security.
Sutter and I spent several days of quality time together once I decided to cooperate and answer his questions. Not that I had anything more to tell him than before, but I realized that the only way I’m going to get back to my time and stop this from ever happening is to get back my medallion—my key. That’s why I have to keep close to CHRONOS.
Tate’s the one who came up with the idea that I might actually be of some use at the museum as an “expert” on the 1970s and 1980s. I think that’s a major stretch unless they’re talking about TV shows, junk food, and early eighties music, but I didn’t argue.
The idea of having a job when I should be finishing up tenth grade is strange, but they simply don’t know what to do with me. I’m too old for their brain tinkering and they are poorly equipped to handle someone who didn’t pop out of the womb with an occupation crammed into her skull. It’s not like I can find a job flipping burgers. They have machines for that kind of stuff.
The Shaw grandmother offered to take me in, but that was immediately batted down since they believe her daughter is a terrorist. And I guess they weren’t keen about putting me into whatever sort of foster system they have in the twenty-fourth century.
Sutter’s preferred alternative was apparently confining me to my quarters indefinitely. Since he’s the Big Cheese of Security, I suspect that’s what would have happened if I hadn’t made a concerted effort to win him over. Not easy when you’re dealing with someone who can literally see through lies. The strange eyes are part of Sutter’s “chosen gift.” He gets little visual cues that show whether a person is lying. Tate says they aren’t perfect—just sensors showing the other person’s heart rate and other telltale signs—but they’re pretty good. I tried a few small fibs on him during our second session and he nailed me each time. It’s probably a valuable tool for someone who interrogates people for a living, but I can’t help wondering if he’s able to shut it off. Would he really want to know every time someone lied to him? Would he use it on his kids? His wife? So creepy.
Sutter pushes past Tate and holds out a cuff that glows the same neon green as the medallions. He claps it on my wrist without even asking permission. I readjust the cuff to loosen it a bit and Sutter promptly retightens the thing. “You can’t have it falling off. It projects a CHRONOS field, which should alleviate your concerns about disappearing.”
This was one point where Sutter’s eerie lie-detector eyes came in handy—he may not know whether I’m right about that other version of me being in the building that day. It could have been a hallucination. I was in pretty bad shape. What he does know, however, is that I’m not lying to him intentionally. It’s something that actually worries me.
Every time I mention that other me to Old Creepy Eyes, I get the sense that he’s hiding something. Both times I asked, he changed the topic in a hurry. What did they find in at the bottom of that hole? My other body? Another CHRONOS key?
Whatever it is, it must be something that’s known only to CHRONOS security, because Tate had no clue when I mentioned it to him. His only idea was that the g
irl might have been an accidental “splinter” created by crossing my own timeline, which makes no sense to me at all. How could I have crossed my own timeline when I’ve only used the key once, by accident?
I’m just glad that Sutter confined his interrogation to the actual bombing. I don’t know anything at all about that, so I didn’t have to hold back. If he’d started asking questions about why I want to work at the museum, however…things could have gotten dicey.
“I still think the possibility of you disappearing is highly unlikely,” Sutter continues, “but this cuff also contains a PMD, allowing us to follow your movements.”
I give Tate a questioning look and he whispers, “Parolee Monitoring Device. I think. They use it for prisoners.”
“Oh.” The cuff is smaller than the one I remember seeing Kingpin slap on Spider-Man’s wrist in the comics a few years back, but I’m guessing the principle is the same. “So…you can track my movements as long as I’m wearing this?”
“Yes,” Sutter replies. “I had the tech people tweak it to add the CHRONOS field, but otherwise it’s pretty standard. Any time you’re outside of your apartment, you’ll wear it. If you’re caught without it, I’ll revoke your assignment.”
“She’ll wear it,” Tate says firmly, and I can tell he’s saying it as much for me as for Sutter. Tate has stuck his neck way, way out for me. If I screw up, it’ll reflect back on him.
Sutter gives a quick nod and then says, “You also need to avoid conversations with anyone who isn’t CHRONOS. I’m not sure how your family wrangled you living at the Objectivist Club—or why, for that matter—but don’t go flaunting who you are. There are plenty of people who won’t be happy that Katherine Shaw’s daughter is walking around—”