Chapter Twelve

June 18, 2507, 11:20 p.m.

 

Zoë knocked on the door. She waited a moment, then wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. She knocked again, but before she could pull back her fist, the door opened, and Jamie stood behind the screen, his dark hair messy.

“Are you okay, Zo?” he said. “It’s almost midnight.”

“I just need to talk. And I knew you’d be awake.”

He unlatched the door and opened it. She stepped inside the dim living room. From one of the windows she could see the shadows of a lush garden in his backyard, filled with sunflowers and trellises.

Jamie disappeared into the kitchen, and she sat down on the couch, still trembling. She turned on the TV, saw a report about the king’s funeral, and turned it off.

A moment later, Jamie re-appeared with a mug of coffee, and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she said.

He sat down. “So what’s wrong?”

“It’s me and Thomas. We got into a fight.”

“What happened?”

Zoë’s fingers traced the edge of the mug. “He’s in love with someone else.”

“What? He seemed to really like you. Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding. I mean, what did he say?”

“Well, he’s been seeing this girl. I asked him about it, and ... he just started mocking me. Called her a time traveler, or something.”

“A ... a time traveler?”

“Oh, it all sounds so stupid now. I’m sorry to bother you. Maybe I should go.”

“No, no. Uh, why don’t I talk to him? Maybe in the morning.”

“I can’t ask that from you.”

He took her hand. “Just wait here a minute,” he said. He walked over and grabbed his guitar from its case. A platinum pocket watch—the one Ariel had given him—tumbled out.

“Stay as long as you need,” he called over to her.

He turned over the watch. History was supposed to go one way, breaking Zoë’s heart over and over again—but then, history could change.

 

2.

 

A year before Kyle died, Zoë Martínez was twenty-one and Biochemical Pathways was at the height of its fame.

It was 2505, and a national magazine decided to do a profile of the young woman. She sat for a full-page photo dressed in white and wearing a pearl necklace, her red lips a flat line, her eyes sparkling: the lovely and mysterious socialite.

Not by any action of her own, Zoë had become a high-profile member of the music scene. She had attended the Grammy ceremonies twice with the band, appearing on stage when they collected their awards. Though she recorded some vocals for the band’s albums, and played synth live when the songs called for it, she did not consider herself a musician.

“I’m a pilot,” she said to the article’s reporter. “The open sky—that’s my song.”

She had thought the article would be a minor piece, but while on tour in London, Zoë stopped in the middle of the street and saw a rack of magazines with her face on them. She pursed her lips, and asked Jamie what he thought.

He didn’t reply. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from a billboard showing a slim brunette model. The advertisement was years old, and the model, disappointed by her fading looks, had long ago started a military career. But the image of eighteen-year-old Kira Watson still made Jamie’s heart flip.

Zoë was many times more famous than the former model, but had never had someone fall in love with her, let alone as much as Jamie had with Kira. “How can you still love someone who never gave you the time of day?” she asked.

“There’s a simple reason,” Jamie had replied, “but I have no idea what it is...”

No one knew where they had met, and Jamie would never say, but when he was nineteen he fell deeply in love with young Kira Watson. They lived five streets apart in Tenokte, in different worlds: he was a penniless musician, and she could make thousands of credits in a single photo shoot.

The model politely declined all offers for a date. So Jamie composed a song for her: “Dame de la Pluie,” the moody tune that would become one of his biggest hits. A local DJ, knowing and sympathizing with Jamie’s plight, played it over and over again early in the summer of 2501 in the hopes that Kira would hear it. She did, and finally she said yes: she would give him a chance.

Jamie was elated. The summer of love, as he called it, saw him write nearly a song a day. But the relationship wore down, and though Kira couldn’t think of a single thing she disliked about him, she also couldn’t find anything she did. She left him.

A week later, at a friend’s party, Jamie attempted suicide. Paramedics rushed him to a hospital, where he spent three days under evaluation and was then released. “I’ll never be free,” he lamented. “Cupid didn’t hit me with an arrow. He shot me with a bullet.”

He dropped out of sight for two days, not returning calls or answering his door. His friends, alarmed and fearing the worst, phoned the police. A dozen officers searched his apartment, but found nothing. Jamie Parsons had vanished.

Rumors sprang up immediately. Had he successfully committed suicide, and if so, where was the body? Had he run away to start a new life? A search went out for him for days, including monitoring his ID cards for any activity. Nothing showed up. The musician had dropped off the face of the earth.

Then, later that week, Jamie walked back to his apartment building, a guitar case on his back, and saw the yellow crime-scene tape. He spent an afternoon in an interrogation room, but only gave the following explanation: “Sorry for worrying you all. I lost track of time.”

Kyle and Damien chased his song all summer, and finally caught up with him to start the band. As the songs rose on the charts and the three boys’ bank accounts gained a string of zeros, a reporter asked Kira if she had made a mistake.

“No,” she replied. “And my leaving him says more about my personality than his. I couldn’t make the relationship work. I’d like to put the whole incident behind me.”

By the time she’d left Jamie, she had already quit modeling and, against her mother’s advice to become an actress, joined the military. There, the poster girl found an obsession of her own: the secret police. And in her years of pursuing time travelers, she never knew that she had missed them by just a few days.

 

3.

 

June 18, 2507, 10:35 p.m.

 

Kira sat in a taxi, headed for a party, when her cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Lieutenant, I found something that I think will interest you greatly.”

“Caxton? What’s up?”

“Agent Nineteen returned to the base earlier today.”

“What? Did he remember anything?”

“No. He asked a lot of questions, though.”

“Anything about the girl?”

“No, but I found something rather interesting. Random cameras throughout the city have been only showing static for the past few days. We found the signal interfering with them, and someone was able to block it. I think you need to take a look. I’m sending a clip to your phone.”

Kira looked at her phone, and saw that he’d transferred the clip. It was from that evening and was rather dark, but the image was unmistakable: a street in Tenokte, with Thomas Huxley speaking to a red-haired girl. Their time traveler.

She put the phone to her ear. “Has anyone seen it?”

“Someone e-mailed it to Delacroix.”

That made things complicated. “Tell me you haven’t sent out a team yet.”

“They’re waiting on your order. Huxley has been sighted near the canals. We’ve got a team following him.”

“Right. I’ll meet up with them. Thank you, Caxton. You’ve been incredibly helpful.” She closed her phone and ordered her driver to change course. Then she sat back, perplexed. Thomas had lied to her. He didn’t trust her.

And that’s exactly the way I trained him, she thought.

 

4.

 

The night seemed unusually cold for summer, but the sky was clear and speckled with stars. Thomas wandered around, making his way to the canals. He knew that evening curfew had already started, but he didn’t feel like going anywhere else. Finally he reached the bridge at the edge of the city, then leaned over the railing, looking out at the water.

Zoë would probably be in a better mood in the morning—maybe. But what if Ariel backed out of the deal, and he couldn’t secure a release for Damien? What then?

Things were looking bleak.

His phone started ringing, and he opened it. “Hello?”

No answer.

He flipped it shut and turned around. Heading toward him were two Celestial patrols, their footsteps muffled by the sound of the water. Thomas took a step back, but they were already on the bridge.

“ID,” said one of the Celestials.

He pulled it out and held it up. The helmeted officer walked over, pulled out a flashlight and read the card. Thomas put a hand over his eyes to block the light, and the Celestial turned it off.

“You’re under arrest.”

“What?” said Thomas. “It’s after curfew, there’s just a fine—”

A white car swooped down from the sky and slid down to hover a foot off the ground. Lt. Kira Watson stepped out, then slammed the door. The cruiser flew away. When she spoke, her breath let out a cloud of mist.

“Thomas,” she said.

She looked otherworldly in her brilliantly white coat. Behind her was the distant sparkle of city lights.

“Out after curfew, and speaking with a wanted criminal,” she said, grinning. “You’re slipping, Thomas.”

He looked at her, puzzled. “What’s going on?”

“Ariel Midori,” said Kira. “Does that name sound familiar?”

He moved his eyes to the guards, and he understood. So Ariel had been right: they were tracking her.

“We just want to talk to her. Our signal’s gone dead, probably won’t work again. Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

Kira’s eyes flashed. “Yes, you do.”

“She left. She’s not coming back.”

The lieutenant considered. The wind whipped her hair and jacket, and she pressed her lips together. “Guards, leave us.”

The Celestial soldiers walked off the bridge, leaving him alone with the lieutenant.

She smiled at him, but looked as if she would cry. “You were the best we had, did you know that? I personally oversaw the execution of the people who shot you.”

He stared at her.

“Perhaps I owe you an explanation, Thomas. Ever since the Federation started, there have been classified projects. The Commander wanted me to investigate Project X, opened just a few years ago—after unknown individuals were seen aboard a Celestial ship. Time travelers, so it would seem.”

“Right,” he said. “Time travel. Sure. You’ve been lying to me for four years. Why should I start believing you now?”

“Trust your instincts,” she said. “I always knew that she would come back for you. It was a mistake to let those two go. Imagine how their skills would benefit the secret police.”

“Kira, even if I knew where she went, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“You wouldn’t exchange that knowledge for the safety of others? Your family, perhaps? Or Zoë?”

The Celestials approached again, and he didn’t bother to struggle as they pinned his arms back, handcuffing him. He was too heartbroken to fight.

Kira pulled out her blaster, checked the settings, and held it ready. She looked out at the street a moment, then back to Thomas.

“Look at you,” she said, smiling. “They tried to kill you once, and here you are, alive as ever.”

“I’m not going to help you.”

“Oh, you will, Thomas. Trust me. I could always depend on you.”

 

5.

 

When Ariel, a quiet shadow of her usual self, walked into the base, Bailey immediately noticed that something had happened. Ariel walked past without even a murmur of greeting and slumped into a chair.

“Bad night?” Bailey asked.

“The worst.”

“Well, you saved Jude’s life. He’s fine now. When can I expect to see Thomas again?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t want to join the Order.”

Bailey knew this was a possibility, but had hoped against it. “You’re sure?”

Ariel thought back. “Well, I don’t know. He’s not the traveling sort.”

“Did you tell him that if he doesn’t go, he’ll die?”

“…that came up, yes.”

“Go back and try again. Ask him one more time.”

“I can’t.”

“Ariel, if he won’t help you, then he could turn on you. He could be in contact with Celestials already. If he tells them what he knows—”

“He won’t.” Ariel strode past her and walked down the hall. She found Jude in the laboratory, studying something under a microscope. He looked up when he heard her come in, then smiled.

“Hey, kid. That was some rescue.”

Ariel smiled faintly. “Don’t mention it. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, thanks to you.”

She nodded, but behind her tinted sunglasses, which were translucent in the room’s light, her gaze was distant and careful. She tried to smile. “Jude, I need to show you something. It’s in Thomas’s time.”

“No thanks, kiddo.” He lifted up a slide, looking at it in the light. “I’d rather not go to that century again.”

“It’ll be great. Come on.” She held a pair of handcuffs behind her back.

“Maybe later.” He put the microscope under the slide.

She pulled her pistol out of her jacket. “I insist.”

He looked up, alarmed by the gun. “Ariel? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know why you did it, but the king was practically my nephew.”

Jude jumped up suddenly. “Ariel—”

“Why did you kill him?”

“They stopped tracking you after that, didn’t they? Two bullets, and they stopped. No one’s followed you since. They would’ve moved on to the other timepieces if I hadn’t. Bailey’s; Jamie’s old one. How long do you think that would take?”

Ariel was stunned. He said he’d been out investigating why they were following her; apparently they had different understandings of the task. He had gone back in time to look at their files—their security systems were updated late in 2503, making that time his best chance—but he must’ve reached a dead end. And now…

“They tortured me,” he said. “Those people don’t deserve a king. And it was always going to happen, wasn’t it? So why not me?”

“I saved your life,” she said, taken aback.

“Yes, you did. And I saved yours. They took my timepiece, Ariel. It took them years to get it working, but they finally did. It’s all they needed to track you.”

So now it was her duty to turn him in: but oh, what a duty. The tape itself wasn’t enough, nor were the fingerprints: without time travel, Jude Fawkes had no reason to be alive in 2507. As the forensic scientist had thought: computer error. Case closed. The Council would think so, too—at least, without the suspect in hand.

Thomas had asked her to turn Jude in, but she couldn’t. It came between the Celestials having time travel and Damien dying … and the Celestials could never, ever have the power from those watches. But could she let an innocent man die?

What if she stole the watch back? Was it even possible? … but even if she took it, they would torture Jude for knowledge of time travel instead of punishing him for murder … and if, out of revenge, he gave any information about where to find a time-traveler-turned-singer, or any location for them to dig to find a base…

But she needed to turn him in; there was no question of it.

“They’re going to kill an innocent man for this,” she said. “You’ve meddled with history.”

“So have you,” came a voice.

Ariel turned: Bailey stood in the doorway, holding a revolver. Ariel didn’t move.

“How did she know?” Bailey asked Jude, calmly.

“You knew?” said Ariel.

“She’s going to turn you in,” said Bailey, ignoring her.

“She won’t.”

“This is psychotic!” said Ariel.

“Even so ... if Huxley knows, he’ll find you.”

“He doesn’t know,” said Ariel, flustered.

“We’re going to make this easy on you, kiddo,” said Bailey. “If you agree to give up your watch and go back to your own time, you’ll never hear from us again. If not…” She raised her revolver.

“Relax,” said Jude, holding up a hand. He looked at Ariel, who was still pointing a gun at him. “That king was five centuries removed from your brother. You were about as close to that kid as you are to anyone else in the world.”

Her eyes flashed. “You’re right. I never knew him. But you’re still a murderer. And I’m going to deliver you to the Council, so they can do what they like with you.”

“Ariel,” said Bailey, holding the revolver steady, “just hand over your watch.”

“Try and take it.” She rushed forward at Jude, who seemed hesitant to harm her. She tried to grab him, and Bailey fired, barely missing her.

Ariel tried to pull out her watch, but ducked; Bailey’s bullets lodged into the wall. She had to take care of Bailey, too, or she’d come after Thomas…

Jude, however, knocked Ariel away. Ariel put the gun in her jacket and pulled out her sword—it felt much more natural in her hands.

“Ariel, I was your partner once!”

“Not anymore.” Ariel swung it at him, missing.

Bailey was still shooting. A bullet cracked a tank of fireflies; a cloud of startled, luminescent insects took flight into the air. Ariel lunged, pinning Jude against the wall. She stopped her blade close to his throat, and he went still. The chain of her pocket watch was looped around her fingers, and she moved to touch the fob.

Bailey fired again, striking the wall just an inch away from Ariel, making her involuntarily jump. Jude grabbed the sword and wrenched it away from her, pulled away her copper watch, and she stumbled back, knocking into a shelf. A few test tubes fell off, tumbling and shattering as they hit the floor.

She was cornered. Bailey leveled the gun at her, Jude had her sword, but both of them were staring at the mess of broken glass on the floor, horrified. Ariel felt a sudden twinge of pain, and looked at the palm of her hand. She’d been cut by some of the shards of glass, and was bleeding.

“Bailey,” said Jude, “when you said you were studying live falling-sickness viruses … you were joking, right?”

The scientist was standing back. “Now you don’t have to worry about killing her. The disease will do it for you.”

Ariel stumbled, wincing from the pain in her hand. And Jude did a quick set of mental calculations. First, this strain of the falling-sickness was spread by infected food or water—or by getting it into the bloodstream. There was no cure.

And second, now he only had to worry about a journalist who had too much knowledge of time travel.

“Jude—” said Ariel.

“I’m sorry,” he replied.

Bailey loaded a tranquilizer dart into the pistol, and closed one eye. “I’m not,” she said, and fired.

 

4.

 

Ariel Midori Reynolds turned over in bed and opened her eyes.

She sat up, confused.

She reached under her pillow to pull out her watch (for she always kept it there) but she did not feel the cold, ticking timepiece.

A scrap of paper lay on the nightstand. She picked it up and read the scribbled note:

 

Best wishes to your new life, short as it may be.

- Jude Fawkes

 

She looked around. Her window showed a sunny autumn morning. She wasn’t in her room at the base, but in her bedroom back home. A cell phone still lay on her desk, charged, though she had not used it in a year; Bailey had given her one that worked across time. But she picked it up and looked at the date.

It was October. More specifically, the day she left.

Jude had her pocket watch, she had the falling-sickness, and Thomas Huxley was five hundred years away.