Time's Mirror: A CHRONOS Files Novella (The CHRONOS Files) (16 page)

When I finally push myself up to sitting, I see why he chose to remain on his feet. I suspect some of that moisture on the ground is from rain or dew. But most of it is blood. My body isn’t the only one sprawled out on the field, but it’s by far the liveliest.

“The year is 2074.” Simon’s voice is monotone, bored, almost like it’s his turn to recite in speech class. “In your time, this area would have been Niger, near the Chadian border, but in this reality, it’s all Akana. Throughout recorded history, the region has never been what you’d call peaceful, but one rather powerful ethnic group, the Akan, took control back in the thirteenth century, thanks to the foresight of a leader named Esther. Odd name for an Akan woman, and coincidentally, the name of a CHRONOS historian who was stranded in that period. Esther and her daughter, Edna, made a number of changes for the better within her culture—for example, they’re one of the few groups who never snip-snipped the private parts of either sex. But they were aggressive and territorial, and as you can see, many generations later, they still don’t play nice with their neighbors. The Akan are responsible for this…” He waves one arm around at the stacks of corpses. “And there are many other fields where the mud is redder still.”

He offers me a hand up, and I reluctantly take it. I start to brush the blood-mud from my skirt, but it’s a lost cause.

“This is one of the things we have to fix,” Simon tells me. “Among numerous others that I’ll be showing you today. When you’re ready to move on, let me know. And this time, I’d suggest following my instructions. Unless you want a repeat of your last little adventure.”

I do not.

I grab the handle. And when Simon says blink, I blink.

R
ITZ-
C
ARLTON

M
IAMI
B
EACH,
F
LORIDA

Day 6—June 19, 2024

There’s a tap on the door and then Saul asks, “Hungry?”

I am. But I shake my head. “The device makes me queasy, and Simon has me scheduled for another jump in a few hours.”

Saul shrugs. “Okay. I can wait until you get back. I hate eating alone.”

I add that to the small, but growing, list of things that Saul Rand and I have in common.

“Thanks.” I try to sound a little cheerier than I actually am. The place is nice enough, as cells go. Movies, TV, my own bathroom. Room service.

But jail is jail. I carved another notch into the wall behind the bed last night. There were a few days at the beginning when I didn’t keep count. It may even have been a week. Since I started the tally, I’ve crossed off five days. It’s my nightly ritual, right after I brush my teeth.

The only time I get out of this room is to go on another of Simon’s field trips. The recent ones haven’t been as bad as the first few, the ones I think of as Simon’s Tragical History Tour. The beach I can see from my window is underwater a hundred years from now. Dolphins and horses are practically extinct, along with several dozen other species, as a result of several odd flu-like viruses that Saul suspects were man-made. Terrorists attack locations all over the world in 2092, and the animosity that emerged in the wake of those attacks leads to a third world war. Saul says these things weren’t in the history books in his day, or at least not in quite the same way. Mother and this Richard guy seem to have set most of this in motion, but Simon told me that things got much worse after I contacted Deborah and pushed Mother to act more quickly than she’d planned.

Most days, I just feel…numb. Not quite as numb as I did after taking the pills that first night at the Farm, but still kind of floaty. I’m not on any medications that I know of, but what I thought that night is just as true now—they could be putting something in my food or drink. But I have to eat, and I have to find a way for them to trust me enough to give me my own key back. If I can get to Tate, we can talk this through. I need someone to help me figure out this mess.

I’m not sure about their plan to set things straight, either. Saul’s right that we need to get people to listen, to pay attention, if we’re going to fix the damage, rather than making it worse, as Simon claims I did before. And religion can motivate people to action—good and bad.

Either way, I guess the die is cast. Four days ago, Simon and I traveled back to 1476 London. I was there more as a prop than anything else, the little wife who held on to her husband’s arm like a timid mouse. It’s not a role I enjoyed playing, but letting go of Simon’s arm without a medallion of my own carries certain risks I’m not ready to take. Simon dropped two manuscripts into the hands of William Caxton, who had just opened his printing shop. We paid the printer a rather handsome bribe to bump the
Book of Cyrus
and the
Book of Prophecy
ahead of the first book in his queue, Chaucer’s
Canterbury Tales
. Chaucer could hardly complain, since he was long dead even back then, and Caxton seemed pleased to have a bit of extra cash in his pocket.

Simon made a few trips without me, to pick up the books he had printed and then to distribute them in some libraries. He also deposited a portrait of me and a painting of Saul feeding the hungry at one of the larger Cyrist churches that popped up over the next hundred years.

Some of these solo trips were on my own List, but Simon said he’d take care of them. It sickens me that I actually felt a bit of gratitude, since it meant one less tandem jump with that stupid field extender.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Saul says.

I nod toward the evil gadget. “I was thinking I’d like to jump back and give whoever designed that thing a piece of my mind.”

Saul’s expression is rueful. “Well…Simon got the specs from me, actually. Handed them over to a young guy who was working with Edison, down in Florida. A former protege of Tesla. It’s actually very impressive for something built in 1902.”

“There were some very impressive torture devices during the Spanish Inquisition, too.”

“You have your mother’s dry sense of humor, I see. One of the things that attracted me to her, actually.” He flashes me a quick smile. “Well, if you aren’t hungry, are you at least feeling up to meeting another recruit? Simon will be back with him soon.”

Simon has been a busy, busy bee. I think several months have passed for him…the stitch on his upper lip is long gone, with just a tiny scar remaining. Two offspring of CHRONOS historians appeared yesterday to meet with Saul and hear his theories on what happened at CHRONOS and how they can help fix it. I wasn’t part of those discussions, since I’m confined to quarters, but Saul opened the door long enough to introduce me to both of them.

I have mixed feelings about the young woman, Edna. She’s the daughter Simon said was mainly responsible for building up the Akan empire, and thus very indirectly responsible for the slaughter I saw on that first trip with Simon. Edna is not much older than I am, and she seemed nervous. That’s probably not surprising for someone jumping hundreds of years ahead of her time. At first, I was surprised at her command of English, but then I realized Simon probably talked to Edna’s mother about all of this before the woman was even pregnant with her daughter. Edna was groomed for this, just as she was probably groomed to lead before. There’s no doubt in my mind that she’ll be staying.

I’m less certain about the man, a guy named Dunne. He didn’t hang around long, and when Saul introduced us, he made a special point of asking—twice, in his thick Irish brogue—if I was sure I was okay. I’m not sure he believed me when I said yes, which suggests he has pretty good instincts. After the Dunne guy left, I heard raised voices in the other room. Saul and Simon arguing. I only caught the loudest bits of the conversation, one of which was Simon telling Saul that the Dunne family was non-negotiable. That they’d have to find a way to convince him, or Saul could just find someone else to—

“Pru?” Saul prompts. “Did you hear my question?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. I’ll meet him.”

He starts to leave and then turns back. “Are you okay, Pru?”

His voice sounds like he actually cares. And maybe he does. Am I being too cynical? I may not have spent any time with him, but…I’m his kid, right? Maybe it bothers him to see me miserable, especially when he’s playing a role in
making
me feel that way.

“I’m okay,” I tell him. “But I’d be much, much better if you’d give me back my key. Why is Simon calling all of the shots now?”

Saul sighs, and sits down on the bed next to me. “If I were to give you a key, where would you go? You know you can’t contact Deborah or your mother. You’ve seen what happens as a result of that. We can’t risk it.”

“No. I want to see Tate. I want to talk all of this through with someone who’s not in the middle of it.”

He’s silent for a very long time.

“I’m not…opposed to that,” he says finally. “Especially if you could carry a message back for me. It would be interesting to know how much history CHRONOS whitewashed in order to cover up their own liability for this mess. But, on a personal level, maybe you should be careful if you’re actually…interested…in Tate Poulsen. He was—”

“I know about Maya. He told me.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Everything?”

“Enough for me to know it’s over. And even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Tate is miserable in the museum. He doesn’t belong there. If we can fix things so that CHRONOS doesn’t shut down…”

“Well,” Saul says, “I have good news on that front. The simulation currently puts the probability at seventy-two percent, up from twenty-four percent before we planted the seeds for Cyrist International. I still have to put in the latest figures, and these machines aren’t what I’m used to, but that’s a hopeful sign, right?”

The equipment Saul has here seems pretty impressive to me. Some of it hasn’t even been invented yet, which is reason he doesn’t let the maids in to clean. It’s also why he says we’ll be packing everything up and moving to the Farm within the next few days, once a few additional dominoes are in place.

He brushes a strand of hair back behind my ear and then tips my chin up to look at me. “We’ll talk again later, okay? I don’t want you to feel like you’re a prisoner here. You agreed to help us fix this disaster, and I trust that you’re going to hold up your end of the bargain.”

Saul goes back to his computers and I lie in bed listening to my Walkman.

He’s right. I agreed to help. No one twisted my arm, although after my little tour with Simon, how could anyone not agree? Still, there’s no question that I am really and truly
in
this now. And maybe it’ll all be for the best. Saul ran a computer search for Sister Prudence last night and showed me the results. There are dozens of
schools
named after me. Art of every variety is decorated with my face, my body—although it’s hard to recognize as my body in some of them.

Even if I wanted to, I’m not sure I could back out now. You can’t exactly weasel your way around a commitment when your face is on the stained-glass windows.

But here’s the cool part. Cyrist International is doing so much good. Programs for education, to help the poor, feed the hungry, improve the environment. I’ve never been a fan of the whole cheery when-life-gives-you-lemons philosophy, but we’ve got a great big pitcher of lemonade now. And whether it’s good or bad, I don’t know any way to put the juice back into those lemons.

The next tap on the door isn’t Saul. It’s the Rat Bastard. “Wakey, wakey. I have a big surprise.”

If I ever get my hands on a weapon again, I’ll have a big surprise for you, too.

But I sit up and try to keep my expression pleasant. Saul says I don’t have to like Simon. I don’t even get the sense that Saul really likes him. But I do have to work with him. We have to coexist.

Simon pulls someone forward, a boy in his early teens. He’s tall and lanky, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes that dart around the room.

“Patrick, meet Sister Prudence.”

The kid is frightened, but trying not to show it. His clothing looks handwoven—a belted tunic over tightfitting pants and leather shoes. There’s something vaguely familiar about his face that I can’t place.

Simon stands there next to the boy, grinning, almost quivering with anticipation, like a dog expecting a treat. He’s clearly waiting for me to figure something out.

After a moment, Patrick asks Simon a question. I’m not sure what language he’s speaking. Simon responds, using a few foreign words mixed in with a bit of English. Judging from the kid’s expression, it didn’t really answer his question.

Simon looks back at me. “Oh, come on! Doesn’t he look anything like his daddy?”

Does he mean Saul? Is this some half-brother they’ve dredged up?

And then the boy turns slightly to one side. His nose is a bit too large for his thin face, and there’s a familiar little hook near the top.