BY RYSA WALKER
The Objectivist Club
Washington, EC
May 9, 2304
Morgen Campbell laughs at his own joke. It’s a deep belly laugh and, as with most things the man attempts, he throws his full and considerable weight behind it. Most of the idiots in the room join him. That’s due less to any of his comments being funny than to the fact that Campbell, the host of this gathering, is generous with his alcohol and mood-meds.
I should know to avoid the Club this time of year. When there are new faces at CHRONOS, new people that Campbell can impress with his vast collection of historical and philosophical bullshit, he inevitably trots out the whole existence-of-God shtick. I vary my answer occasionally, just to keep up appearances. But it’s generally some variant of no, and there are always a few younger historians who find it amusing that the religious expert isn’t devout. Not even Campbell knows my actual views, although he probably has a better idea than most of the halfwits I work with at CHRONOS.
“Why do you think that’s strange, Campbell? Whether I believe, whether anyone in this room believes—hell, whether God even exists—isn’t the point. Even if the answer to all of those questions is an unequivocal negative, that doesn’t alter the reality that religion is the most effective tool we have for changing history.” There’s a slight gasp from the newer recruits, so I look their way and add, “Theoretically speaking, of course. He’s seen it play out time and again in our simulations.”
“I’ve seen it fail more than once, as well.”
True. Campbell has seen it fail exactly twice in the three years we’ve been playing, out of more than two dozen simulations. I’m about to point that out, but he speaks first.
“We have believers in this room. In fact, I’d wager over half adhere to some sort of religion. I include myself in that number.”
“Does hedonism count as a religion?”
“Funny, Saul. But that actually validates my next point. You can’t leverage religious belief to effect change on a systemic level. Even if we all believed, we’d all believe in different ways. While religion may cause the occasional dispute between nations and even within governments, the various faiths tend to balance each other out. Fine, let’s look at it a different way. Do you believe in sin? ”
That’s a new one. “Well…that depends on your definition. Sin lies in the eye of the beholder.”
“No dodging the question.”
“It’s not a dodge. Just a reasoned response to a complex question.” I nod toward the old, overweight Doberman asleep at Campbell’s feet. “Cyrus here probably thinks it’s a sin that our society allows him to be owned by a bipedal baboon, when his own intelligence and personal grooming are far superior.” There’s a chuckle from some of the neophytes, so I wave my hand in their general direction. “That young man over there in the corner who’s fresh out of Fundamentals? He thinks it’s a sin that the gorgeous creature he walked in with isn’t as in love with him as he is with her.”
The gorgeous creature in question, a pale blonde who’s just finished her field training, blushes. A tiny, probably involuntary, flicker of her eyes reveals I’m right about at least one of three guys, none older than eighteen, who accompanied her tonight.
I look back at Campbell. “You think it’s a sin—and I’d generally agree—that our government restricts parents to selecting only one genetic upgrade for their offspring. You have to invite us here to listen to secondhand accounts of historical events you’d love to view in person, but can’t, because your parents chose—what exactly did they choose, Campbell?”
His eyes narrow, and I consider leaving it there. Campbell could cause trouble for me, if he ever decided to run his mouth to the admins at CHRONOS. He could possibly even get me grounded, stuck here at HQ doing background research with no travel at all. The man has connections.
But he won’t. We want the same thing, even if we have different ideas on how to achieve it.
So I push a bit harder. “Personally, I think it’s a sin to be yammering about questions with no answers when my mouth”—I rest my eyes momentarily on the girl again, on her lips, and feel a rush of satisfaction when her blush returns—“could be otherwise engaged with the much better brand of whiskey you stash behind the bar.”
He’s been known to pull out the good stuff, the stuff that isn’t doled out by the food dispensers, on the evenings when we’re running historical simulations, but he keeps those bottles hidden when he hosts the entire Objectivist Club. I grab the bottle anyway and toss back a shot without even bothering to savor it, just because I know it will piss him off.
Tate Poulsen, resident Viking historian and my roommate for the past year, is seated at one of the low tables near the bar, talking to Esther, who studies ancient African civilizations. He laughs, shaking his head when I offer him the bottle, and then asks in a low voice. “Are you done? Or do you want to stick around to see if you can raise Campbell’s blood pressure even more?”
Over Tate’s shoulder, I see the blonde girl with the new historians—her name is Cassie, Kathy, something like that. She looks away when I catch her eye, but she was clearly watching me. That fact is almost incentive enough to stay, but Campbell will be too wound up to keep his mouth shut. If I don’t duck out soon, he’ll try to pull the conversation back toward one of his philosophical circle-jerks.
“No point. Grab your jacket and let’s go.”
Esther gives me a reproachful look as she watches Tate’s well-muscled back retreat. “Thanks, Saul. I was actually making progress this time.”
“No, you weren’t. Sorry, Ess. The boy has eyes for only one woman these days.”
Since we’re technically supposed to keep our libidos zipped when in the field, I don’t add that the woman in question is half Esther’s age and lives in a tiny Viking village over a thousand years in the past. But she probably suspects. In fact, knowing Esther, she’s broken the rule with more than one Akan warrior.
I nod toward the corner. “I see some lonely virgins over there. And if that doesn’t work out, buzz me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Still, she runs one long nail along the inside of my leg. We both know she’ll buzz if no one else distracts her.
Tate is leaning against the back wall of the lift when I catch up. “Confess your sins at the throne of Cyrus, so that you may receive his blessing,” he says, mimicking Campbell’s pompous tone. “Should we add that one to the book?”
He smiles at our little in-joke, a game the big lunk thinks he understands. He doesn’t add much of value, but he’s someone to bounce ideas off. And he’s dumb enough to believe the Book of Prophecy and all of my research is only for my weekly simulations with Campbell.
“Should have taken the drink I offered. You never come up with anything decent when you’re sober. I prefer this one: Those who are capable of greatness but settle for mediocrity have sinned in the eyes of Cyrus.”
“Not bad.” Tate grins, and I join him, even though it’s not a joke. It’s the honest truth, the God’s honest truth, if you like.
The only sin I could commit in the eyes of any creator worth worshipping is failing to live up to my own potential. Failing to act, failing to achieve, failing to overcome the hurdles set by lesser minds.
Accepting mediocrity when you are capable of greatness is a sin.
But watching mediocrity play out over the course of centuries, watching as fools stumble over their feet and let accidents create history, simply watching the blundering when you have tools at your disposal to change it, to shape it to your will?
That’s not’s just a sin, it’s a cardinal sin. Maybe the only cardinal sin.
I resolved years ago, when I was one of the newly-minted historians, that I would find a way to sin no more. Now, it’s just a matter of working out the details.
The devil is always in the details.
Little Rest, Rhode Island
May 18, 1780
“Up the North Road, two roads over. Mebbe a mile. They might not be receiving, however. Their daughter, Susannah, she’s very ill. And…d’ye know Potter’s no longer a judge?” There’s a gleam in the innkeeper’s eye, along with the sly smile that always comes just before a juicy bit of village gossip. “Taken up with that woman preacher, the Friend. Quite the scandal.”
“Indeed?” Katherine replies, with a haughty lift of her chin. “That’s actually good to know, since it is the Friend whose counsel we seek.”
I sigh. We’re clearly not going to get anything else out of the man now, so I tug her elbow and guide her outside.
“Should have let him go on a bit, Kathy. You get useful information that way.”
She blushes—no surprise there—nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair back inside her bonnet. “Sorry.”
Our cover story for this trip is that we’re a newlywed couple seeking marital guidance from Jemima Wilkinson, who answers these days only to her chosen title of “Publick Universal Friend.” For the past four years, since Jemima awoke from an extended illness, she’s claimed that she’s no longer Jemima, no longer female, but now a genderless embodiment of the Holy Spirit. She’s amassed several hundred followers here in Rhode Island and the surrounding colonies who fund her ministry. Some are from the Quaker congregation she once attended and others come from various evangelical sects that sprouted during the revival frenzy of the Great Awakening a few decades back. Her detractors argue that she’s a lazy opportunist who has found a way to live in comfort with little exertion, simply by exploiting the gullibility of a few wealthy patrons like Judge Potter. And none of those detractors believe that she’s celibate, even though she urges her congregation to be.
I don’t know about the celibacy issue. She didn’t look at me the way most women do, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s more attracted to Potter’s wife than to the judge himself. What I do know is that the Friend was extremely interested in the bit of prophecy I pushed her way several months ago when I attended a sermon she preached in Charlestown. She was even more delighted when I told her I didn’t want any sort of credit. What pisses me off is that even though I gave the stupid cow the precise day, she merely proclaimed that the darkened noontime sky and blood red moon would come…soon. Maybe within the next six weeks. Moving from her original vague pronouncement that judgment day was nigh to this slightly less vague pronouncement about a specific portent of the End Times barely tweaked Jemima Wilkinson’s impact on the timeline. The tiny blips ironed themselves out quickly and she remains a footnote in history, just another strange messiah who led her followers into the wilderness and then faded into obscurity.
If she’d told them the precise date, this would’ve been a far better test of how much I can alter without alerting the CHRONOS overseers. As it is, I have to move on to the second, riskier stage of the test without full data. That wouldn’t have happened if Jemima was bright enough to follow simple instructions.
We begin the hike up North Road in silence. Katherine Shaw is a welcome change from the chatterboxes Angelo usually assigns me, and it occurs to me that she may be exactly what I need in a research partner. Our paths will cross a lot given her field of study. For better or worse, religious history is chock full of pious women clamoring for someone’s rights, occasionally even for their own. And she’s young enough that manipulating her will be a breeze.
“In case I didn’t say it earlier, Quaker garb suits thee.”
“Thanks.”
I purposefully wait until the pink begins fading away from her pale skin to speak again. “Plain dress is a very difficult look to pull off, you know. If there’s the slightest hint of drab in a woman’s face, it tips the scales toward totally plain. No risk of that in your case.”
As expected, the compliment summons the blood right back to her cheeks.
I need to tread carefully, though. Angelo very nearly saddled me with Delia Morell as a third party. I don’t have much use for Delia or her husband. Even though they’re only a few years my senior, they’ve gradually wormed their way into CHRONOS middle-management, mostly by sucking up to Angelo. The two times I’ve landed a reprimand, it’s been Delia’s fault. I talked my way out of anything actually sticking to my record, but I’m smart enough to steer clear of them.
Angelo didn’t even have a decent excuse when I asked exactly why he’d assign Delia, a mid-twentieth century specialist, to a Quaker village in 1780. He just did that weak, wavy thing with his hands and changed the subject. But he pulled her from the jump schedule, so I win.
I know why he wanted Delia along. Angelo knows our fields of research make his little blonde lamb my inevitable research partner, but he’s not sure she can handle the big bad wolf. Maybe he realizes the lamb is attracted to me. I’ve known it since the first time I saw her a few years back, fourteen and not even out of Fundamentals. Even that goofy kid who follows her everywhere—Richard, Robert, something like that—knows it. He glares at me like he fantasizes about killing me off so Katherine will finally notice him.
“So, you were at Jemima’s so-called resurrection?” Katherine’s voice is a little shaky, and she steals a glance at me from the corner of her eye. It’s the first time she’s had the nerve to ask a direct question.
“Well, not at the resurrection itself. Just at Jemima’s sermon the following Sunday. I’m sure the resurrection would have been more fun to watch, since it took place in her bed…” I wag my eyebrows suggestively.
As I suspected, innuendo is even more effective at bringing on her blush, but the sly grin that follows close behind is a surprise. “You weren’t supposed to be married back when you met her in 1776. Why didn’t you arrange an invitation to her chamber?”
“Um…because that would have blown my cover as an aspiring celibate.”
“It’s your third trip to this region. If that cover’s not already blown, you must be slipping.”
Her comment almost causes me to miss a step. I’d classed her as pretty, but vapid. She apparently catches my near-stumble, because a tiny little smile sneaks onto her lips.
We trudge along for another ten minutes or so. Katherine picks up the pace when she spots Judge Potter’s residence, known locally as The Abbey, up ahead. I’m not sure if the family calls it that or not. The villagers seem to be using the term ironically, possibly mocking Judge Potter for taking Jemima in and building a separate wing for her to hold services.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I caution Katherine. “It’s farther than it looks.”
She sighs and slows back down. The hike up North Road is less than two kilometers total, but between the dark, heavy clothes of this era and today’s unnaturally thick and humid air, it’s not a pleasant walk. I set a stable point on my last visit, just outside the barn, and we could probably have jumped in without anyone noticing. But the Potter family would have found it odd if visitors popped in out of nowhere, looking fresh and unruffled. Better for one of the field hands to spot us coming up the road.
Instead, we jumped in near a tavern and booked rooms at the inn in Little Rest. That village will morph into Kingston in a few decades, then South Kingston, with two or three other mergers and name changes along the way until the whole area is gobbled up into the Greater Boston district of the EC in the 2200s.
Katherine sniffs the air. “How can they not tell that’s smoke?”
I wish she’d go back to being too shy to ask questions. “It’s only a faint trace. Could you pick it out, if you didn’t know?”
By this time tomorrow, the sky will be nearly black. The residents of Little Rest are already edgy from the strange weather, but tomorrow it will tip to full-fledged panic. They have no way of knowing the darkened sky is due to low-lying clouds combined with smoke from a massive forest fire in an uninhabited region of Ontario. Scientists won’t figure it out for over two centuries. In this era, people simply flail about and search for some way to appease their gods.
Their reactions don’t interest me, although I’m a little curious about what Jemima thinks. Does she really believe in prophecy? Or is she the clever con artist her enemies depict?
The girl’s voice breaks into my thoughts. Dear God, she’s actually reciting the poem.
“’Twas on a May-day of the far old year
Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell
Over the bloom and sweet life of the Spring
Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon,
A horror of great darkness, like the night
In day of which the Norland sagas tell,
The Twilight of the Gods.”
Katherine grins when she reaches the end of the stanza. “And we get to see it! To be here right in the middle of it, when people are rushing about worried that it’s the end of the world. Even Whittier didn’t have that advantage. He had to write his poem based on someone else’s account.”
She ignores my eye-roll and skips ahead a few steps, then turns back to face me. “Laugh all you want. It’s my first apocalypse, Saul Rand. And yes, I know being excited is the hallmark of a time travel virgin, but I’d rather be young and eager than a jaded old man.”
When I don’t respond, she arches an eyebrow and says, “What? Hast the cat thy tongue?”
Truth be told, I’m pissed off at the old man remark, but I’m certainly not going to admit that. “No. I’m still back on the bit about you being a virgin.”
Her blush comes rushing back.
And that means I win.
• • •
The servant, a middle-aged black man, slides the silver tray onto the low table in front of us. The two glasses are filled with a pale, cloudy liquid. “The Friend begs thy pardon, John Franklin, and that of thy wife. Susannah is still restless and the Friend does not wish to leave her side. She hopes to speak with thee soon.”
“Thank you, Caesar.”
We’ve been waiting here for an hour already. I have no doubt the delay is connected more to Jemima’s sense of self-importance than to Susannah’s illness.
Once we’re alone, Katherine whispers, “He’s very direct, even for a Quaker slave. He used your name—well, your cover name—without any sort of title. The same for Potter’s daughter, Susannah. And wasn’t Caesar one of the names on the manumission documents?”
“Could be.”
“If he’s free, why is he still here?”
I shrug. “Maybe he didn’t have anywhere to go.”
A brief silence and then she speaks up again. “Susannah, the daughter who dies tomorrow. What’s wrong with her?”
“Typhoid, most likely.”
I sincerely hope that guess is right, otherwise the wide-spectrum antibiotic I’ve brought with me won’t do much good. Even then, there’s a chance that “The Friend” will resist, or do something else to botch this test as badly as she botched predicting when the sky would go dark. It’s looking more and more like this jump will be a colossal waste of effort.
Katherine is looking at me oddly now. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Why?”
“You’re clenching your jaw.” She glances around, and then leans closer, lowering her voice. “The way you did at the Objectivist Club, when you were angry with Campbell.”
I really like the warm press of her breast against my arm, and the gentle thrum of her heartbeat that I can both feel and see in the little hollow where her neck meets her collarbone. I even like the way she smells—the hint of vinegar and honey on her breath from the drink, the faint undertone of sweat from our walk.
What I don’t like is her chatter interrupting my thoughts. She’s more observant than I thought, and now I’m wondering whether she’ll be the easily controlled partner I first imagined.
I lean in closer, purposefully maximizing contact between our bodies. Her pulse quickens, as I expected, but she doesn’t move away.
“Do you like waiting here in an empty room?” I ask, locking my eyes with hers as the pink slowly fades from her cheeks. “We’ve been allotted thirty-six hours, give or take, before we must return to our stable and head home. I don’t know about you, but I doubt there are answers to the questions on my research agenda here in this parlor.”
Katherine leans back in her chair after a moment, thankfully silent. Then she walks over to the bookshelf in the opposite corner, which holds a few dozen volumes, and runs her forefinger along the spines, eventually pulling a thin bound volume from the shelves. Another brief search and she snags a second book from the lower shelf.
She tosses one of them to me. “I don’t remember seeing either of these in our archives. Maybe they’re some of the Friend’s lost manuscripts.”
I don’t respond, just thumb quickly through the essay collection, “Some Considerations, Propounded to the Several Sorts and Sects” by the Publick Universal Friend. It’s written in the obtuse, florid language used in all of her works. There’s an occasional, mildly interesting biblical reference, interspersed with paragraph after paragraph of commentary that’s either self-aggrandizing or else addressed at resolving petty squabbles between one local church and another.
A complete waste of time. “I’m going to find the privy. Wait here.”
It’s a lie, but I’m too edgy to sit. I need a few words with Jemima in private, anyway. The Friend’s desire to take credit for the prophecy will probably keep her from saying anything too revealing in front of Katherine, but you can never tell. Jemima was stupid enough to keep the prophecy vague, so she might be stupid enough to babble about it. But most importantly, Katherine can’t be around when I slip Jemima the medicine I’m carrying. The longer I wait around on the Friend to grant us an audience, the greater the possibility the fool will botch her second chance to add a miracle to her résumé.
I veer down a hallway I saw Caesar take earlier, when he first left us in the parlor, and head up the stairs. The house is large by colonial standards, but I hear faint moans when I turn into the hallway, so it doesn’t take a genius to locate the room. When I nudge the door open, Jemima is praying, eyes closed, over a feverish woman in a damp white gown that clings to her frail body. Judge Potter’s wife, Penelope, is at the head of the narrow bed, sponging her daughter’s forehead.
When I tap on the doorframe, Penelope looks up from her ministrations, frowning as she tugs a blanket over her daughter’s body. “Thou should not be here. Caesar asked thee to wait…”
I glance away from the bed and say, “I beg thy mercy. My business with the Friend is urgent but it will only take a moment and she can return to her prayers for thy daughter. Another life hangs in the balance, else I’d not intrude in this way.”
The Friend’s eyes flash with annoyance, but she places the Bible she was holding on the bed table. “Penelope, give thine own prayer over Susannah until my return. I shall not tarry.”
Jemima Wilkinson isn’t exactly pretty. She’s somewhere between the written descriptions of a bewitching beauty I read in some of the histories from this era and the rather drab drawings that were made when she was well past her prime. In keeping with her “Universal Friend” persona, she wears an odd mix of male and female garments—a loose-fitting, black clerical robe and white cravat over a plain skirt.
Definitely not my type, but her eyes are compelling. Dark, almost black, especially when she’s angry, as she is now.
She ushers me down the stairs, toward an exit at the side of the house. Once we’re outside, she says in a low voice, “Hast thou come to claim credit even while the sky is merely dim?”
“No, Friend,” I say, lowering my head in deference. “My wish is not to claim credit, but to spare thee pain. While I cannot speak with the passion thou hast, my visions are strong. Susannah will die by this time tomorrow, but I have medicine that can save her.”
I take the vial from my pocket and place it in her hand. She pulls the cork from the top and sniffs the contents, wrinkling her nose.
“This could be poison. From where was it obtained?”
I grab the vial from her, pour a tiny spot of the liquid into my palm, and then press my tongue against it.
“I cannot reveal my source, but I swear it will not harm Susannah. And she’s near to death anyway. You’ve seen enough patients to know that.”
I realize that I’ve lapsed from plain speech as soon as the words leave my mouth. Jemima’s brow furrows, but she takes the vial back, replacing the cork.
“Your manner is strange, John Franklin. William Potter made inquiries of thee with the Friends at Richmond. The man by that name who once worshipped among them is twice thine age.”
“They recall my father. I was just a lad—”
“Indeed.” Her lips press into a firm line. “I shall pray upon this matter.”
She turns to go, but I grab her arm. “I would not pray too long, dear Friend.” I glance behind me at the new wing that Judge Potter recently added to his home, expressly for Jemima’s use. “I have foreseen that thy generous patron will grow to doubt thee if Susannah is not spared. And no potion can raise the dead.”
The last bit isn’t entirely true, depending on the timing and the exact cause of death. And Potter’s faith in Jemima will not be shaken even when Susannah dies. He won’t begin to doubt the Friend for well over a decade, and the records that exist suggest their falling out was due to a legal dispute concerning money, not the mere death of one of his dozen or so offspring. I’m less certain about his wife, Penelope, however. When Potter and his adult children follow Jemima into the wilds of upper New York in 1790 to help build her new utopia, Penelope will remain behind in Little Rest.
Still, I can tell from the look in Jemima’s eyes that the warning hits home. She’d feel much more secure if Potter and the rest of her followers believed her prayers could pull a girl back from an almost certain death.
“I shall pray upon this matter,” she repeats, slipping the bottle into a small pouch concealed under her cloak. “Caesar will prepare a room. It would be best to have thee near at hand in the event there are…complications.”
Her subtle emphasis on the last word has me worried. “While I thank thee for the kind offer, our belongings are in the rooms we’ve taken in the village. My wife knows nothing of my gift and she has been known to gossip. It would be best if this remains our secret.”
“One of our people will fetch your things,” Jemima coos, giving me a smile that’s almost angelic. “Because I really must insist.”
• • •
“I don’t understand why we aren’t staying in Little Rest,” Katherine says, as we retreat down the hallway to our chamber, two doors down from the sickroom. “We’re supposed to stick to the plan.”
She’s referring to the formal mission plan, submitted months in advance and cleared by Angelo and a half dozen other CHRONOS functionaries prior to each historical jump. We provide them with the precise historical questions we’ll address, a list of events we’ll witness directly, individuals we intend to contact, lodging arrangements for overnight stays, and so forth. According to the plan I submitted, I’m here to observe the impact of the legendary “dark day” on the Society of United Friends, an eighteenth-century millennialist sect. I haven’t read the plan Katherine submitted, but knowing her mentors, I’d wager it’s some feminist garbage about how Quaker society and its offshoots empowered female leaders.
Supposedly, having a precise plan and adhering to it limits our impact on the timeline, on top of the host of pesky technical constraints they’ve built into the system. The primary nuisance is locking down our travel with the key. All historians must return to CHRONOS headquarters via the same stable point at which we arrive, with no side trips. While there’s some degree of flexibility as to when we return, anything more than a few days outside your preordained window will be flagged during your post-jump med scan. And, as my roommate Tate recently discovered, you’d better have a damned good explanation for your delay.
These protocols help CHRONOS isolate accidental alterations to the timeline. They’ve never been willing to discuss the specifics with a mere historian like myself—CHRONOS bureaucracy is a complex, multilayered ecosystem—but between my own experiences and what I’ve pieced together from others, no one worries about minor blips on the historical radar. Minute, splinter-sized changes will happen in the course of any jump, but these rough edges are worn away within a few years. In some cases, the reports don’t even pick up those anomalies, especially on jumps like this one to tiny burgs where the historical recordkeeping is scanty at best. They’re looking for things that change history on a grand scale. The small tweak I’m working here with Friend Jemima—along with the dozen or so other miracles and prophecies I intend to add over the next few years—will never show up in their aggregated results.
Of course, little Kathy here is fresh out of training. CHRONOS protocol has been pounded into her pretty head on a daily basis for the past eight years. No doubt she believes the sky will come tumbling down if we deviate the slightest bit from the mission plan.
Another downside to having a wide-eyed child as my traveling companion. Someone who’s been around a bit would be more relaxed. All of the historians, with the possible exception of Delia Morrell and Abel Waters, sneak away for a joyride from time to time.
On the other hand, a more experienced partner would be more likely to pick up on any activities outside the norm. And since I can’t do every jump solo…Katherine is probably the lesser of the various evils I could have at my side.
That doesn’t keep me from wanting to snap her neck right now. Once we’re in our room with the door closed behind us, I take a deep breath and answer her question. “It would have been impolite to refuse Jemima’s offer. And this gives us a chance to observe their reactions up close. To really understand what happens.”
“I’m here to study Wilkinson and I haven’t even seen her yet!”
I put the lantern on the dresser. “You just sat around a table with a family of Quakers—“
She opens her mouth to correct me, so I quickly amend. “I know it’s a variant. The Society of United Friends. What-the-hell-ever. The point remains. This is an opportunity that fell into our laps and I took it.”
“Chatting with a bunch of children won’t help me answer my research questions.”
She may have a point there. I was by far the oldest occupant at the dinner table. We ate with the six boys and two girls who still reside in the Potter home, ranging from nineteen-year-old Benedict Arnold Potter (who will decide to drop his troublesome first name in a few months when his namesake is exposed as traitor) to four-year-old Pelham, who doesn’t like dried beef and was therefore given a bowl of something called pop-robin. Judge Potter isn’t due to return until later this evening. He dined with us in absentia, however—a dramatic portrait of the judge as a young man hangs above the dining room fireplace, staring down at his progeny and guests as we ate. Penelope came down briefly to introduce herself to Katherine and make sure we were being taken care of, then returned upstairs with one of her daughters to tend Susannah. I haven’t seen Jemima since we spoke three hours ago.
I nod toward the window, where a full moon hangs in the sky, pinkish-red, but still a far cry from the dark, blood red orb that history recorded tomorrow night. “The girl—the one who’s around your age? She spent a good ten minutes telling us how the Friend predicted the moon you see there. You couldn’t have gotten any better information than that at the inn. The action takes place tomorrow, Kathy. Tonight simply gets us into place and staying here avoids a hike back and forth from the village.”
Our bags are on the bed, fetched from the inn as Jemima promised. I shove Katherine’s bag in her direction and start digging through my own.
“Why didn’t you request separate rooms like we had at the inn? It would have made more sense, given that the entire reason we’re supposedly here is to ask the Friend’s counsel on whether we should be celibate. Did you even mention that to her?”
“I didn’t really have time, Kathy. It was a two minute conversation held outside the privy. The woman was in a rush to get back to Susannah.”
“Sorry. I guess you’re right.” She’s quiet for a moment, and then adds, “Do you think that’s why Mrs. Potter follows Jemima? Maybe she wants the judge to embrace celibacy so that she’s not spitting out a kid every few years.”
It’s equally likely that Penelope Potter realizes her randy old goat will never embrace celibacy, and she’s actively hoping his prayer sessions with Jemima are exactly what the townspeople think they are so that she’s off the hook in that regard. I’d tell Katherine that, but it would probably send her off on a boring tangent about how the miracle of birth control saved women from a life of drudgery and I’m too tired to pretend that I care.
When I finally locate the item I’m searching for in my bag, her eyebrows shoot straight up.
“Is that a toothbrush? How on earth did you get that approved?”
“Special request from the prop department. The handle is bone, and the bristles look like, but damn well better not be, swine hair. These were first used around 1780, so yeah, it was approved. If you’re nice to me, I’ll let you borrow it.”
She wrinkles her nose. “No, thanks. I have a cloth in my bag.”
“Suit yourself.”
I walk over to the water jug and dampen the brush, thinking as I scrub how nice it would be if the overlords of CHRONOS would approve toothpaste. Or better yet, a portable sonic scrubber.
When I’m done, I spit into the side basin and then turn back to face her. “They don’t tell you this during training, Kathy, but everyone goes off plan. We improvise. Otherwise, we learn nothing.”
Her eyes remain wary. And while I can’t be certain in the dim light, her trademark blush seems to be missing. Has Katherine Shaw gotten used to my presence over the past few hours?
That’s something I need to fix.
I take a few steps toward her. Tipping her chin upward with my thumb, I give her my best, most reassuring smile, as I trace her lower lip with my forefinger. “Relax, okay? I’ll cover for you if they give us any flack. Promise. And if you’re worried about the sleeping arrangements, I’ll take a quilt onto the floor.”
For several seconds I hold her gaze, forcing her to be the one to look away. And even in the lantern light, I can tell that her face reddens.
She finally steps back. Her mouth opens, like she’s about to say something, but we’re interrupted by a faint tapping.
When I open the door, Penelope Potter is there, looking exhausted. “I beg pardon, John Franklin. I have a favor to ask of Katherine.”
I move away and Katherine approaches a little hesitantly. “Yes?”
“My daughter has retired for the night and so has the Friend. We have been tending Susannah for days with little rest and I told them I could manage for a bit on my own. But the judge has returned from his trip. I must speak with him briefly, and I do not wish to leave Susannah alone. Would thee be willing to watch over her for a short time?”
Katherine nods, but I hold up my hand. There are no markings on the bottle I gave Jemima, but if she left it open, Katherine might be able to tell from the scent that it wasn’t your average herbal cure.
“My wife is tired. It would be best if—”
Katherine smiles at Penelope. “I need a moment with my husband and then I will gladly join thee.”
Penelope nods, and as she’s closing the door, I ask, “Has Susannah’s condition improved?”
“Truly, I cannot tell. The Friend says we can only pray.”
When she’s gone, Katherine turns toward me. “Thanks for the concern, but you were right before. This is a good opportunity to view their lives close up. I won’t interfere in any way. And as for your offer to sleep on the floor?” She tosses me a pillow and quilt from the bed. “That goes without saying.”
The Abbey
Near Little Rest, Rhode Island
May 19, 1780
Judge Potter is at the table with young Benedict when Katherine and I arrive at breakfast. He’s clearly a man of considerable appetite, judging from the food heaped on his plate. Servants are clearing several other places and I’m delighted to see we’ve missed another meal with the Potter brood.
The judge doesn’t look much like the portrait above the mantel these days. His face is bloated and his once-striking black mane is now sparse on top and streaked with gray.
“You must be John Franklin,” he says, finishing a bit of egg before he stands to greet us. “Penelope told me thou art here as a guest of the Friend.”
“I thank thee, Judge—“
He shakes his head. “None have title above the rest in our Society. I am simply William.” His eyes graze over Katherine, with a glint that makes me certain he’s either ignoring the celibacy rule or else having a serious struggle with Satan over the matter. Katherine’s blush, which I found attractive yesterday, is beginning to grate. Or maybe it’s just knowing that Potter’s gaze, rather than mine, is the cause.
“My wife, Katherine,” I say, placing a proprietary hand on her shoulder.
“A pleasure to meet thee both. Please, join me.”
Benedict has nearly finished, and he excuses himself as the servants place two plates in front of us. I hold a chair out for Katherine and the judge gives me an odd look. Now I’m wondering whether that custom is followed by the Quakers.
“Is Susannah improved this morning?” I ask.
“She is indeed,” Potter replies. “Remarkably so. The Friend has proclaimed it nothing short of a miracle.”
Katherine’s fork clanks against her plate, but she recovers quickly. “A miracle indeed,” she says, smiling at Potter. “The fever was raging when I sat with her before retiring. I feared she would not last the night.”
He nods. “Penelope too was certain the girl was near death when I returned last night, but the fever broke in the wee hours. Susannah is alert now, and has even taken some broth.”
“Praise be to the Friend for interceding.” I glance toward the window, where the sky is again overcast. “Your children noted the odd shade of the moon last night, saying that the Friend believes the odd weather is a sign.”
Potter’s lips tighten a bit, causing me to wonder if Jemima shared my role in that prediction, but then he smiles. “God speaks to the Friend as to no other. He speaks through her.”
As if on cue, the Friend herself enters the room. Her mood is much improved since yesterday. She beams first at Potter, and then at me and Katherine.
“Children, bless thee for thy patience. I apologize for the wait, but my prayers and counsel were needed with Susannah.”
Once Jemima is seated and served, the four of us focus on the meal—eggs, more of the dried beef, and a porridge of some sort.
Katherine breaks the silence after a moment. “You’re—” she begins, and then clears her throat when she realizes the error. “Thou art certain of Susannah’s health then? She was so very ill when I sat with her last night.”
The Friend’s eyes narrow briefly, but then she smiles. “God heard my pleas and saved our Susannah. When I held her in my arms in the hours before dawn, I was near despair, but then I heard a voice whisper that she would be spared to greet our Lord when He joins us here on Earth. And that joyful hour approaches. On this very day the sky will darken, and the moon will be as blood. As Peter tells the faithful in the second Book of Acts, ‘The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood, before that great and notable day of the Lord come.’”
We return to our room after breakfast, promising to meet the Friend in her quarters at eleven. Katherine’s shoulders are rigid with tension and as soon as the door is closed behind us, she whirls to face me.
“What happened, Saul? The accounts I read said that Susannah died at eight in the morning, in the arms of the Friend. Last night, I was amazed to think that she would make it even to dawn. Maybe the accounts were wrong? Maybe she dies tonight? A relapse?”
“Perhaps,” I say, giving her a comforting smile. “We’ll know better as the day goes on.”
• • •
Our session with the Friend has been going on for only an hour, but it’s one of the most boring I’ve spent in my twenty-five years. Verse after verse after verse on the value of celibacy, especially in these days when the Lord is knocking on the door, ready to usher in the Millennium.
Jemima would likely rattle on for hours if not for the steadily darkening room. We all keep glancing at the window, and Jemima finally breaks off in mid-sentence around twelve fifteen, when we hear noises outside. She pulls the curtain away and laughs—a giddy, twittering sound that doesn’t really fit her.
“It’s happening. Behold the sky! Just as my visions fore…told.” Jemima pauses and casts a nervous look in my direction, probably wondering if I’m about to steal her thunder. When I say nothing, she heads toward the door. “I am needed elsewhere, friends.”
Katherine and I follow her outside. I park myself on the edge of the porch and watch the sky. It’s darker than the one I see most evenings from my balcony in the District. Even on clear nights, the lights from the cities along the EC can make it difficult to spot the moon, let alone the stars.
Those who scoffed at Jemima’s prophecies seem to have reconsidered, judging from the steady flow of visitors at the gate. Carriages and buggies clog the North Road that we walked in on yesterday. The people on foot, walking along the side of the road, are making better time than those who ride. I wouldn’t have thought there were this many people in Little Rest, although I guess some may be coming in from surrounding villages. I catch the eye of one man as he passes in front of me. It’s the owner of the inn, the one who jeered when we asked directions to the Abbey yesterday. He startles when he recognizes me, like he’s worried I’ll tattle to the Friend, and then hurries after the stout woman and four young children who arrived with him.
Word has spread about Susannah’s recovery as well, amazingly fast in this era before any sort of mass communication.
It’s easy to see that the Friend is in her element, blessing each newcomer quickly before moving to the next. The Potter offspring have been pulled into service, directing the people to the courtyard behind the house, where a small, unadorned pulpit sits in the center of a raised wooden platform surrounded by benches.
Katherine stands near the gate, a few feet behind Jemima, close enough to hear each exchange between the Friend and her admirers. Typical new historian behavior, thinking you need to mentally catalogue every comment, every action. She’ll forget half of it before she can make her report anyway. The entire point of being here is to observe, to experience the event as a whole. That requires stepping back to see the full picture.
Besides, I already know what the Friend is saying. What she’s doing. Because she’s saying and doing exactly what I would do in her place. What I will do in her place. Offer a blessing and a smattering of scripture to those who enter and fall to their knees in prayer. Give credit to the higher power, but don’t contradict when someone elaborates your role. By tomorrow, the story of her prophecy, and especially Susannah’s recovery, will have grown. Jemima will not merely have pulled Susannah back from the brink of death. Susannah will have actually died, her skin growing cold and her limbs rigid before the Lord heard Jemima’s pleas and breathed the very life back into the girl’s body.
So I just watch until the party moves around back. By this time, the only light is the fire that several of the men built about fifteen yards behind the stage where Jemima now stands. It’s far too warm for the fire and the smoke only adds to the oppressive thickness of the air.
A confused owl, no doubt groggy from lack of sleep, hoots in the distance as the Friend steps onto the platform. Her short frame is outlined in the glow of the fire behind her. How many in this group would have said only yesterday that Jemima was a consort of the devil? I’ll wager half would have been more inclined to toss her into the fire than to listen as she preached in front of it.
Katherine, who is nothing if not tenacious, has pushed her way past the crowd and now stands near the front. I make polite excuses and shoulder through to join her.
“Having fun?” I whisper.
She grins up at me, but her expression shifts to worry as she looks beyond me. I turn and see two of Potter’s older sons carrying a chair in which Susannah sits, frail and tired, but very much alive.
“Maybe she relapses,” Katherine mumbles. “From being outside?” She opens her mouth to say something else, but then the Friend begins to speak.
“Therefore…” Jemima’s voice is clear and strong, despite the foul air, and I have no doubt that it carries even to the back of the crowd of well over a hundred, but she pauses until the crowd is completely silent. “Therefore will I number you to the sword, and ye shall all bow down to the slaughter: because when I called, ye did not answer; when I spake, ye did not hear; but did evil before mine eyes, and did choose that wherein I delighted not.”
A nearly inaudible murmur runs through the crowd as she paces from one end of the platform to the next, the tails of her black coat flapping like the wings of a crow as she turns back to them, citing another verse. “But they mocked the messengers of God, and despised his words, and misused his prophets, until the wrath of the Lord arose against his people, till there was no remedy.”
Verse after verse follows, her voice rising to a crescendo and then falling, only to rise again with a new passage, each echoing the same refrain. I never realized how many verses of the Bible boil down to, I tried to tell you idiots, but no—you wouldn’t listen.
After a good twenty minutes of this, Jemima points up at the darkness above her where the only light is the dim, but most definitely blood red moon. “Shame be upon those who waited until the very sky proclaimed the truth, who could not hear the message of the Lord’s prophet above the whisper of thine own interests! Thou comest today seeking mercy, when thou hast no mercy in thine own heart. Will the Lord heed the cries of those who waited until the final hours?” A pause for dramatic effect as she scans the faces before her, and then she says simply, with a note of regret, “I know not.”
She pauses to let that sink in for a minute, before continuing. “But this I know. Those who embraced the Word, who exalted the prophet?” The Friend holds out her hand to several people in the congregation that I don’t recognize and then to Judge Potter, who stands near the edge of the platform, unashamed as tears stream down his cheeks. “They shall be among the blessed. Indeed, thou art already blessed. This very day, I witnessed the miracle of life restored to one of the faithful, a token from God through these hands to save from grief our friend, William Potter, who has given freely to spread God’s word.”
She reels off a list of other names, presumably of those who have contributed to the cause, promising that God will bestow a special (but very vague) blessing upon them soon. She reminds me of Campbell preening at his annual party, sucking up to the various families (including my own) who keep his profit margins high.
I tune Jemima out as she continues with her own version of the Beatitudes, until Katherine gasps audibly and I look back up to see Jemima’s hands stretched out toward me.
“…who offered services and wise counsel in a time of need. The Lord’s eye is upon thee, and He knows thy worth.”
I nod and smile, then glance down at Katherine. Her face is frozen, and several seconds go by before she tears her eyes away from the spot on the stage where Jemima was standing to look back at me.
“What did she mean, Saul? What did you do?” Her voice is soft, barely audible.
But someone could still overhear, so I grab her arm and pull her toward the edge of the crowd, which is now backed up onto the porch of the house. Katherine tries to pull her arm away, but I tighten my hold, dragging her along until we’re back in our chamber. The room is lit only by the faint glow of the fire around the corner of the Abbey and the even fainter, reddish glow of the CHRONOS keys beneath our clothing.
I release Katherine’s arm and grab her by the shoulders. “You dropped cover in public. You dropped plain speech. You used my name, for God’s sake—“
“What. Did. You. Do?” She’s practically yelling now. “Why did she thank you? Did you tell her something when you spoke with her alone? Why is Susannah still alive?”
She is so small, the bones under my hands so delicate, that I have the fleeting vision of snapping her in two like a wishbone. Probably not the best idea, however, if I want to remain off the CHRONOS radar.
“Calm down, okay? I have no idea why she thanked me. Maybe because in this era, as your husband, I own you. You’re the one who studies women’s rights, so I’m guessing you’ve heard of coverture? Did she thank any women?”
I can’t actually remember, but Katherine shakes her head. “I don’t…think so.”
“Well, there you have it. The women in that group don’t control the money. Jemima’s not stupid. She sucks up to the ones who actually fund her ministry, thanking them for any service their wives or daughters may have given. Since you are the one who rendered a service, you’re the one she was thanking.”
“But, I didn’t…” Her voice is quieter now, worried.
“I haven’t gone near Susannah Potter. You, on the other hand, sat with her for nearly half an hour last night.”
That silences her completely.
I tug my CHRONOS medallion from my shirt so that I can see her face more clearly in the reddish glow. She looks like a child, bracing for a scolding, and I soften my tone a bit before delivering the blow. “The question we have to ask is what you did, Kathy.”
“Nothing!” she whispers when she regains her voice, shaking her head frantically. “I did nothing, Saul, I swear it!”
“So you just sat in a chair for thirty minutes and—“
“Yes! I mean…no. I wiped her forehead with the cloth her mother gave me. The quilt came off the bed, so I tucked it back around her. I didn’t do anything that would have…changed it. And I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I wasn’t thinking. Of course you didn’t do anything. Maybe…maybe they just recorded the date wrong?”
I paste on a sympathetic smile and pull her into a hug. She doesn’t resist at all.
“Almost certainly. And…even if Susannah does live, even if something you did altered that tiny bit of history, it’s unlikely that anything will show up in the system. They’re looking at the big picture. They probably won’t even notice. So don’t worry. And I’ll defend you to Angelo and to the board if there’s an inquiry.”
“Inquiry?” Her voice is barely above a whisper now, and I feel the word against my shirt more than I hear it.
“Well…there could be, but I’ll tell them you did nothing wrong. They won’t kick you out.”
She flinches at those words and I breathe a sigh of relief. Any suspicions about my conversation with the Friend are now weighted down under a mountain of worry and self-doubt.
Her heart races against my chest, like a caged rat on a wheel. I smile, pressing my lips to her hair and shushing her. “Trust me, okay? You’ll be fine. I’ll protect you.”
The Objectivist Club
Washington, EC
December 17, 2304
I tweak three different parameters on the simulation board in front of me and then spin it around in midair so Campbell can see the moves I’ve made. “You already have copies of the two books I mention in the second step. The ones I sent over before our last session?”
He makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh as I go over to the bar to pour myself another drink. Campbell will take a good half hour to figure out what to do next, so I might as well stretch out and relax.
“Clever,” he says, after several minutes of surveying the screen. “If you were thinking about this in practical terms, however, beyond our little game, you do know you’d never get away with it, right? CHRONOS would have your key. You wouldn’t be able to duck out like you did with that recent stunt.”
“What recent stunt?” I add a hint of indignation. CHRONOS internal affairs are supposed to be secret, but it’s just show. We both know Campbell can find out pretty much anything he wants to.
“You’re lucky they didn’t boot both you and your little blonde protégé.”
“Wasn’t my fault.” I lean back on the sofa, closing my eyes. “Rookie mistake on Kathy’s part, I suspect. Or one of those odd flukes. Neither of us were even reprimanded. The woman died in childbirth a few years later anyway.”
“Gave a boost to your cult leader, though, didn’t it?”
“A bit.” I add a false hint of modesty to my voice, although to be honest, it only boosted Jemima a tiny bit. A few hundred additional followers, but her entire enterprise still fell apart over land rights and money in the 1790s, once she herded them all up to New York. If she’d listened to me and predicted the actual day of the event…who knows? Might have been a few thousand new adherents. And maybe they’d have been less likely to turn on her if they’d been a little more certain that she was God’s special messenger.
When I open my eyes, Campbell is watching me through the translucent game screen with a shrewd look on his face. “You might be able to hide a minor miracle or two popping up out of nowhere across the fabric of history, Saul. But sticking in an entirely new religion? That’s bound to ruffle a few butterfly wings.”
“As I’ve said many times, Morgen, this is all purely theoretical. You’re right, it would cause a stir…although maybe not too much if you did it gradually. Evidence of one minor miracle at a time over the course of several hundred years, combined with a string of dead-on prophecies? Concrete stuff, not vague Nostradamus hand-waving. Those two things would lay a solid foundation for a new messiah to effect some pretty major changes when he finally arrived on the scene.” I nod toward the screen. “And they’d survive whatever countermoves you’re plotting.”
Campbell sniffs and takes another sip of whiskey before turning back to the game. He’ll sit there for another twenty minutes or so, planning his next move as though it actually matters. As though he has the power to change anything. But if he’d been given the CHRONOS gene instead of whatever lame genetic tweak his family chose, Campbell wouldn’t hesitate to act. That’s the thing I admire about him. He has no more use than I do for a society that refuses to cull the weak in order to strengthen the whole.
I close my eyes again and mentally thumb through my agenda. A healing and maybe a prophecy or two once my plan for the 1893 Parliament of World Religions is approved. A little test of my agent-of-the-Cyrist-apocalypse, along with its antidote, on some invisible villagers no one will miss. Polish up my two little books so that they’ll be all ready to deposit with William Caxton in 1476 when I’m free of my CHRONOS tether.
Within three years, I’ll have all of my game pieces in place for the coup de grâce, without setting off any of the CHRONOS tripwires.
My final move, however, is one CHRONOS is most certainly going to feel. And they won’t see it coming until the whole system explodes in their faces.
Check and mate.