4

OLD PAPER, REAL INK

AFTER A LESS-THAN-STELLAR SIM, FAR USUALLY found solace on the pull-up bar in his room. He faced his feelings in ten-rep sets: pumping anger out, muscle mass in. Making himself better, getting ready for next time. This evening when Far stepped inside the Zone 3 flat he shared with his aunt, uncle, and cousin, the exercise equipment seemed to mock him. What was the point of burning muscle pain now? There was nothing more to work toward.

Marie Antoinette and Instructor Marin had seen to that.

Dreams, badges, his will to fight… all that was gone. Far didn’t even have the energy to make it past the entertainment room, and so he sprawled across the rug, performing a scrupulous examination of the ceiling. There wasn’t much to study: just white interrupted by a light fixture and a single crack that whispered along the room’s length. He’d spent the past forty minutes watching a jumping spider begin an epic trek from one end of the room to the other, ignoring the messages Gram kept pinging to his interface: WHAT HAPPENED? WHERE ARE YOU? I THOUGHT WE WERE SUPPOSED TO MEET FOR LIBATIONS???

Priya’s question was even worse: HOW’S THE VICTORY DANCE GOING?

There was music, but it wasn’t the happy kind. Punched Up Panda’s anthem had gone straight in the trash, replaced by the cyber-metal radio station thrashing through Far’s comm. He’d turned it up to max volume in a vain attempt to drown out Marin’s speech about hubris and history hashing. The rant cycled through Far’s thoughts on repeat, angrier than the synthesized song screams. Louder, too. Diagnostics showed all systems are untampered with. You hashed up royally. YOU FAILED.

He didn’t hear Imogen press her palmdrive to the front door’s lockpad. What he did hear was her yell, “Sorry I’m late! I picked up some gelato on the way home. I thought we could celebr—Far?”

There was a thud—she’d dropped something, the gelato probably—followed by panicked steps.

Far was still staring at the ceiling when his cousin’s hair spilled into his face: bright pastel color, stabbing ends. The closest he’d ever come to describing Imogen McCarthy’s personality was by comparing it to a kaleidoscope. Always changing, always surprising. COLORFUL. She flowed from one thing into the next in a way that was never expected but made perfect sense.

Imogen’s hair was the most obvious canvas for this. In the 366 days since her Academy graduation, Far had seen his cousin’s hair 366 variations of colors. She chalked them in every morning, washed them out every night. This seemed like an inordinate amount of work to Far, but Imogen would have it no other way. Dye was too permanent. Natural blond was too boring.

Today it was violet and very much in his face. Far couldn’t find the strength to wave, so he huffed the offending strands away.

“Crux! I thought you were dead or something!” Imogen leaned back on her heels. The ceiling returned. The spider was still marching, eight legs milling across the plaster wasteland. Where was it going? All Far could see in the arachnid’s immediate future was blank space….

His cousin frowned. Her stare lingered on the wool stockings and waistcoat Far had still been wearing when he stormed out of the Academy—hash you very much! “What happened?”

“I failed.”

Imogen didn’t move. She sat on the floor beside him, silent for the length of another cyber-metal song. It hammered through Far’s ear. The ceiling melted orange with the light of the Flaming Hour, and the jumping spider reached the other side of the room, disappearing behind a HAPPY 17TH UNBIRTHDAY, FARWAY! banner. The sign had outlived its usefulness by half a month.

“I failed,” Far said again, thinking that maybe the words would make him feel better, or at least give the day some sense. All they did was punch the spiderless ceiling.

Imogen left and returned with a carton and two spoons, settling cross-legged next to him. “I got honeycomb flavor. Your favorite.”

If anything, the gelato made Far feel worse. The silky treat—real cream, genuine sugar—was a luxury. Something only senators and high-ranking Corps members and people with connections could afford. When he and Imogen were younger, his mother spoiled them with cartons of the stuff. As if pints of pistachio or key lime or raspberry sweetness could make up for the fact that she was still going on expeditions, aging months in the span of minutes. Chocolate was the flavor she’d bought before she boarded the Ab Aeterno ten years ago and never came back. The ship was declared untraceable by the Corps, lost in a way that could never be found again.

At least, that was what the Corps officials told him. There’d been chocolate then, too—a mug of cocoa going cold on the coffee table. Far ignored it, staring hard at the officer’s infinity hourglass badge, eyes traveling its loop around and around. Your mother is lost…. Sergeant Hammond, too. I’m sorry, son. We’ve done everything we can. What happened to them will remain a mystery.

Even at seven years old, Far refused to believe this. He knew, he just knew, that when he wore a badge like that, he’d go back in time and find the Ab Aeterno.

“Eat.” Imogen held out a spoon, waiting for him to take it. “Sugar and fat heal all wounds.”

“You can’t afford that,” Far said to the ceiling.

She shrugged and dropped the utensil. It landed with a thud on his chest. “I’ve been saving up some credits, working OT in the shop.”

Imogen had attended the Academy on the Historian track, which was popular and thus overpopulated, producing more licensed Historians than expeditions could take on. Imogen applied for every single CTM mission she could, only to watch the position fall to another, more experienced Historian. Once she’d been put on standby (she’d bought gelato in celebration of that occasion as well—lemon lavender), but nothing came of it.

In the meantime Imogen worked as a style consultant in a boutique, dressing the rich and fabulous according to their favorite datastream era. The work at Before & Beyond was menial and underpaying, but Imogen always came home with stories. She liked to reenact incidents featuring her more dramatic customers. There was Eleanor Chun, a senator’s wife who was so addicted to Roaring Twenties datastreams that it was rumored she’d tried to bribe her way onto a 1920s New York City CTM expedition. There was Lucille Marché, who only ever wore white stolas with embroidered edges and was on a strict diet of soy-flavored meal blocks. There was Patrick Lucas, who always custom-ordered top hats and other elaborate millinery but never paid the credits when they arrived.

Far had never met these people, but he felt like he knew them. Imogen’s impersonations were almost better than datastreams, which was good, because Far didn’t plan on watching a datastream ever again.

“What happened today?” He needed a story now. Anything to derail his mind from the dark track it was going down.

“I got chewed out for bringing Mrs. Chun a flapper dress a size too large.” The silver bangles Imogen wore chimed as she stabbed her spoon into the gelato. “Another costuming order came in. The CTM Churchill is preparing to explore fourteen hundreds Florence. So I’m going to be drowning in Renaissance gowns for the next week. Checking the Recorder’s entire wardrobe for accu—”

She stopped midsyllable, a sudden jerk in conversation that startled Far. Why had she—Oh. Right. CTMs. Time travel. Wardrobes.

So much for derailing.

Imogen stayed quiet for another moment. The spoonful of gelato in her hand was starting to drip all over the rug. “I’m sure you can file a formal appeal.”

That was Imogen. Eternal optimist. The grass is still green on this side and never ever ever give up type of girl. Usually Far found her view refreshing. A dose of color and sugar to counter the cynic inside him.

She meant well. She always did. But today Far found no comfort in her encouragements. Hashing up in an Academy Sim was the end of your career. Hashing up in actual history could be the end of the world. When it came to time travel, there was no such thing as redos, and as Instructor Marin had so bluntly reminded Far, he was not an exception.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he said.

“Right.” Imogen’s mouth twisted. “Well, I didn’t spend fifteen hundred credits on gelato to watch it melt. So you better get your tail off the floor and eat it with me.”

Far didn’t want to move, but fifteen hundred credits was over twenty hours clocked at the boutique. The thought of Imogen’s hard work melting into nothing forced him to grab the spoon and sit up.

Enough had been lost today.

They took alternate jabs at the golden cream. Imogen filled the spaces between bites with New Forum gossip and dress dramas, trying her best to edit any mentions of time travel. But the gaps were too obvious. Time travel was discovered only thirty-one years ago, but its cultural presence was inextricable. Everything revolved around it: entertainment, fashion, science, architecture, agriculture. You couldn’t walk outside without seeing a twenty-second-century flash-leather suit or triggering an implant advert for ZOMBEES© HONEY—THE SWEETNESS IS BACK (APPROVED BY THE CENTRAL BOARD OF AGRICULTURAL REHABILITATION). No matter how carefully Imogen censored her tales, stinging details still slipped through.

BUZZ.

Far was almost relieved when the flat’s doorbell jerked Imogen to her feet. She bounded to the door—purple hair flouncing—and opened it to find nothing but hallway.

“That’s weird. Oh—” Imogen bent down, staring at something Far couldn’t see.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s… a letter.” His cousin nudged the door shut. “For you.”

A letter. Far felt the hair on the base of his neck bristling, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

“This is old paper. Real ink,” Imogen noted as she handed the envelope over. Elegant penmanship marked Far’s name on the front. “I’ve only seen stuff like this in museums and Sims.”

The prickly feeling spilled down Far’s shoulders and back as he tore open the envelope. The card inside was covered in the same loopy writing—

Second chances are rare. Don’t waste yours.

Eleven o’clock tonight.

The Forum, Zone 1

Far stared and stared at the letters, waiting for them to rearrange or vanish in front of him. The card was wrong. Second chances weren’t rare. They just…weren’t.

“What is it?” Imogen asked.

Old paper, real ink, second chances, a night-cloaked meeting in Old Rome… It reeked of danger and black market schemes, calling to Far in a way he could not ignore: DON’T WASTE THIS.

He didn’t want to lie to his cousin, but he wasn’t ready to tell her the truth, either.

“An invitation.” Far folded the card into quarters and tucked it into the pocket of that ridiculous waistcoat. His chest one gram of paper heavier, one whole future lighter.