52

… BUT CHOSE US

THE DINING ROOM TABLE HAD BEEN reduced to plates of pizza crust. None of the black market cheese had been harmed by its two-time tumble to the floor. In fact, the entire incident seemed never to have happened. Far’s mother had reemerged from her bedroom with color in her cheeks, placing a new gift on the table before going around and taking everyone’s drink orders. The evening proceeded like most birthday celebrations in a McCarthy household: eating, laughter, the pause between dinner and dessert for embarrassing stories. Imogen shared the one about their childhood petting-zoo visit from Hades—Far had begun that day with a white shirt and went home in a half-eaten yellow rag thanks to a nervous rabbit and a goat kid, forever cementing his dislike for pint-sized mammals. Gram countered with Far’s more recent Sim triumphs. The tale of Far’s birth was told by Burg and both Empras in a rotation that was practically memorized.

The dessert was gelato, chocolate with chocolate chips—Far’s favorite. Aunt Isolde brought out a whole tub of the stuff, but only made it two steps before her daughter cried “Wait! The sparklers!” and disappeared into the kitchen. Light frothed from Imogen’s hands, creating a trail of spilled sparks as she cometed back. Uncle Bert started off the first notes of “Happy Birthday,” and everyone sang.

At the end his mother smiled. “Make a wish. Make it count.”

Far wished he would count. He’d lived his entire life with the feeling it was a size too large. He looked around the table—Aunt Isolde scooping gelato into bowls as Uncle Bert and Aunt E passed them out, Burg holding his mother’s hand, Imogen testing Gram’s Rubik’s Cube, the plates that weren’t there—and felt the possibilities.

could be could be could be

This was his life.

How would Far fill it?

He wished he knew.

Gifts came next. Uncle Bert, Aunt Isolde, Burg, and his mother had all pitched in to buy him a hoverbike—no more public transportation to school! Imogen bought him a pair of goggles to reduce windburn while he drove. Gram gave him credits toward a new datastream. Aunt E’s gift was a family heirloom, judging by his mother’s reaction. She reached for the tweed jacket as soon as he opened it.

“This belonged to your great-great-grandfather, Farway,” she said. “He was a history professor at Oxford, back when Historians had to rely on books. Crux, it’s been ages since I’ve seen this.”

Years, Far knew. Seventeen plus one, to be exact. Crashing into one’s own life was exactly that—a crash. As much as his mother and Aunt E had adjusted to themselves, casualties such as this jacket sprang up every once in a while. Identical childhoods, not enough inheritance to go around. He let his mother hold on to her memory, returning to the final gift. It had been wrapped with haste—no bow, no tag, small enough to fit into his palm twice-over.

“Who’s this from?”

“Open it.” More strange behavior from his mother… The only time she ever skirted subjects like that was when Far tried to bring up his father.

He tore the paper, fast. Silver hinges, plush blue—the box looked like something from a jeweler. The kind of thing that would hold cuff links or a ring or a corneal implant upgrade. It was tech, Far discovered, but none he’d ever seen before. Clear and nearly invisible, the chip had the feel of a futuristic prototype.

“What is th—”

Far spoke. Light bloomed. Everyone at the table gasped.

Gram moved to get a better look at the item. “This is a hologram platform? How?”

Far didn’t know the answer to the second question, but the first was obvious. It was a hologram in front of him, displaying some kind of menu. Eight boxes sat in a neat gradient of colors, tagged 0 through VII. Above them sat a box with an altogether different label: TU FUI, EGO ERIS.

What you are, I was. What I am, you will be.

“Strange.” Imogen leaned forward in her seat. “That’s a gravestone phrase. The Romans used it to warn the living about death.”

Death. Far didn’t think that was what it was referencing this time. He had no proof, nothing beyond a gut feeling—the very same longing he got every time he flew over the Colosseum, magnified. It was a twinge turned roar: WILL BE WILL BE WILL BE.

“Tu fui, ego eris,” he repeated the words to let some of their feeling out.

WILL BE WILL BE WILL BE

The box opened. Out spilled ship’s logs for a vessel called the Invictus. Far read his name in the documents, along with Imogen’s and Gram’s and two others that felt on the brink of familiarity, as if his tongue had recited them many times before. Priya, Eliot, Priya, Eliot, Priya, Priya, Priya. He used to be the captain of a time machine, four months from now, and there were over thirty datastreams to prove it, time-stamped all over history: AD, BC, take your pick.

Far cleared his throat. There seemed to be only one thing to do. “Start from the beginning.”