Time's Mirror: A CHRONOS Files Novella (The CHRONOS Files) (5 page)

“Um…I don’t have a comm?” I hold up my right arm and twist it so that she can see both sides are bare, minus the tattoo-ey things everyone uses to store data and communicate. “I should have one in a few weeks, once they get my credits set up.”

They’re not really tattoos, at least not like the permanent kind. They stick to your skin but you can peel them off when you want to upgrade to a new model. And I really do want one. Music, books, videos. It’s basically one of the Pop-Tart devices, except it goes everywhere you do.

“Okay,” Coralys says, her voice doubtful. “I guess we’ll print your papers out, assuming I can find someone who knows how to do that. We’ll get it finished while you’re packing up your things.”

I nod, thinking that she’d have to twitch her nose and produce those papers by witchcraft in order to finish before I’m done packing up my things. I have my purse, a few sets of clothes that were made for me in this weird closet thing on the third floor, and my shattered Walkman, which still doesn’t work. One of the headphone wires is broken and no one has batteries. There’s also a box that once contained chocolate from Tate, and a note apologizing for dropping the bomb on me like that about Dad. Another note from someone named Anya Shaw, who is apparently my grandmother. Something that looks like a beer stein, which I initially thought had been sent to the wrong room, since it has the initials OC on the side and the card was signed by M. Campbell. Tate says it really was intended for me, however, sent by the owner of the club where I’ll be living once I check out of this place.

Twenty minutes after I have everything packed up, Tate arrives. He is, unfortunately, accompanied by Sutter, who I now know as head of CHRONOS security.

Sutter and I spent several days of quality time together once I decided to cooperate and answer his questions. Not that I had anything more to tell him than before, but I realized that the only way I’m going to get back to my time and stop this from ever happening is to get back my medallion—my
key.
That’s why I have to keep close to CHRONOS.

Tate’s the one who came up with the idea that I might actually be of some use at the museum as an “expert” on the 1970s and 1980s. I think that’s a major stretch unless they’re talking about TV shows, junk food, and early eighties music, but I didn’t argue.

The idea of having a job when I should be finishing up tenth grade is strange, but they simply don’t know what to do with me. I’m too old for their brain tinkering and they are poorly equipped to handle someone who didn’t pop out of the womb with an occupation crammed into her skull. It’s not like I can find a job flipping burgers. They have machines for that kind of stuff.

The Shaw grandmother offered to take me in, but that was immediately batted down since they believe her daughter is a terrorist. And I guess they weren’t keen about putting me into whatever sort of foster system they have in the twenty-fourth century.

Sutter’s preferred alternative was apparently confining me to my quarters indefinitely. Since he’s the Big Cheese of Security, I suspect that’s what would have happened if I hadn’t made a concerted effort to win him over. Not easy when you’re dealing with someone who can literally see through lies. The strange eyes are part of Sutter’s “chosen gift.” He gets little visual cues that show whether a person is lying. Tate says they aren’t perfect—just sensors showing the other person’s heart rate and other telltale signs—but they’re pretty good. I tried a few small fibs on him during our second session and he nailed me each time. It’s probably a valuable tool for someone who interrogates people for a living, but I can’t help wondering if he’s able to shut it off. Would he really want to know every time someone lied to him? Would he use it on his kids? His wife? So creepy.

Sutter pushes past Tate and holds out a cuff that glows the same neon green as the medallions. He claps it on my wrist without even asking permission. I readjust the cuff to loosen it a bit and Sutter promptly retightens the thing. “You can’t have it falling off. It projects a CHRONOS field, which should alleviate your concerns about disappearing.”

This was one point where Sutter’s eerie lie-detector eyes came in handy—he may not know whether I’m right about that other version of me being in the building that day. It could have been a hallucination. I was in pretty bad shape. What he does know, however, is that I’m not lying to him intentionally. It’s something that actually worries me.

Every time I mention that other me to Old Creepy Eyes, I get the sense that he’s hiding something. Both times I asked, he changed the topic in a hurry. What did they find in at the bottom of that hole? My other body? Another CHRONOS key?

Whatever it is, it must be something that’s known only to CHRONOS security, because Tate had no clue when I mentioned it to him. His only idea was that the girl might have been an accidental “splinter” created by crossing my own timeline, which makes no sense to me at all. How could I have crossed my own timeline when I’ve only used the key once, by accident?

I’m just glad that Sutter confined his interrogation to the actual bombing. I don’t know anything at all about that, so I didn’t have to hold back. If he’d started asking questions about why I want to work at the museum, however…things could have gotten dicey.

“I still think the possibility of you disappearing is highly unlikely,” Sutter continues, “but this cuff also contains a PMD, allowing us to follow your movements.”

I give Tate a questioning look and he whispers, “Parolee Monitoring Device. I
think
. They use it for prisoners.”

“Oh.” The cuff is smaller than the one I remember seeing Kingpin slap on Spider-Man’s wrist in the comics a few years back, but I’m guessing the principle is the same. “So…you can track my movements as long as I’m wearing this?”

“Yes,” Sutter replies. “I had the tech people tweak it to add the CHRONOS field, but otherwise it’s pretty standard. Any time you’re outside of your apartment, you’ll wear it. If you’re caught without it, I’ll revoke your assignment.”

“She’ll wear it,” Tate says firmly, and I can tell he’s saying it as much for me as for Sutter. Tate has stuck his neck way, way out for me. If I screw up, it’ll reflect back on him.

Sutter gives a quick nod and then says, “You also need to avoid conversations with anyone who isn’t CHRONOS. I’m not sure how your family wrangled you living at the Objectivist Club—or why, for that matter—but don’t go flaunting who you are. There are plenty of people who won’t be happy that Katherine Shaw’s daughter is walking around—”

Tate rolls his eyes. “Stash it, Sutter! Pru is as much a victim of her mom as anyone else. She’s just spent seven months in rehab, for God’s sake.”

“Didn’t say it was rational,” Sutter mumbles, although his expression suggests he might not entirely disagree with that point of view. “Just said it’s how some people
feel
. I believe the girl is telling the truth, but…”

Of course he believes me, now that he’s looked deep into my soul or conscience or whatever with his demon eyes. I fight back the urge to say something nasty and just give him a twitch of a smile.

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep to myself.”

And I will. What would I have to talk about with someone from this time period? I can carry on a decent conversation with Tate because we have a few common points of reference. He’s been to the 1980s…well, the 1990s. Close enough.

I’ll do what I have to do, say what I have to say, but I don’t plan on making friends here. Because I don’t plan on staying. I just want to find a key and go home to fix this mess.

Because you have to be able to fix things with these keys, right? Otherwise, what’s the point of CHRONOS? I’ll go back and prevent the accident, maybe convince Dad that Mother is crazy, and then he’ll take me and Deb somewhere far away from her.

And yes, I know how it will sound to him.
Hey, Dad. The woman you’re married to is from the future. She blew up a bunch of people and broke half the bones in my body.

He probably won’t believe me. But Deb will. And worst-case scenario, if the parental units present a united front, we’ll only have to put up with Mother for a few more years until college. Anything is better than staying here.

When Coralys arrives with my walking papers, Sutter takes that as his cue to leave. Thank God. I was worried he was going to tag along behind me, watching every step. My own personal freaky-eyed shadow.

Once Tate and I are outside—really and truly
outside
—I hold my face up to the sky, enjoying the warmth on my skin.

He laughs. “You’d think they never let you see the sunshine.”

“Well, they didn’t. Not really. There was a barrier in the solarium. Glass or something. I saw a bird smack right into it. I couldn’t feel the breeze and it still smelled like…nothing. At least you can smell the trees out here.”

And that’s true, although I realize it still doesn’t really feel like—or smell like—I’m in a city. There aren’t any cars, for one thing. Some train-like things whoosh by above us—
far
above us—but no individual vehicles. There are still roads and occasionally someone zips by instead of walking, like they did in the hospital corridors. Occasionally it’s some
thing
that flies by, like a box or container. I don’t know how it works. It’s one of the many techno things I just don’t ask about, because most of the people can’t explain it, and those who can use so many words I don’t understand that I’m just as clueless when they finish as I was at the beginning.

I decided to think about all this stuff like I do TV or the microwave. I have only a vague sense of how either of those work. Did that ever stop me from popping a bag of Orville Redenbacher to munch on while I watched
Knight Rider?
No, it did not.

I wonder if they’ll have ancient TV shows like that at this club where I’ll be living. I don’t know much about the place at this point, not even where it’s located.

“So…how are we getting to this…Optimist Club?”

“We’re walking,” Tate says. “It’s not far. Most everyone calls it the OC, and it’s the
Objectivist
Club, not Optimist. The members I know don’t seem very optimistic. Actually, a more fitting name might be the Egotist Club.”

“What is it exactly?”

He thinks for a moment. “They had gentlemen’s clubs that were similar in the major cities back in the early twentieth century, but…I’m not sure there’s anything like it in your time. It’s a place where wealthy people hang out and—”

“Country club?” I suggest.

Tate considers it and then nods. “Ye-e-s-s, but only if some of the members lived there, too. The building itself was constructed in the forties—sorry, the
22
40s—but the Objectivist part of the name comes from a group back in your era. Truthfully, though, I’m not sure how much the two groups would have in common, aside from the conviction that individuals are under no moral obligation to help anyone other than themselves.”

“So…you don’t live there?” I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice, because I really did mean it when I told Sutter I plan to keep away from people at the OC. But I still have several months before the museum opens, and I’ve gotten kind of used to Tate stopping by every few days.

“I have…liberal guest privileges, but I’m not exactly a member. I know Campbell through Saul. My family isn’t as well connected as yours.”

His mouth tightens as he says this, so I don’t get the sense that he really likes this Campbell guy who owns the OC. I’m tempted to just drop it, but his comment about my family connections bothers me.

“They’re not my family. I don’t know them. Never met them.”

He shrugs. “Well, they’re footing your bills…”

“Why? If these Rand people are members of the Ob…jectivists?” He nods that I got the name right, and I go on. “If they’re Objectivists and they don’t think they have any moral obligation to help me, then why pay for this place? They’ve never even met me.”

“They haven’t,” he admits. “But they’ve seen the DNA report. Truth be, they probably just want you out of the way, somewhere they can keep the media from asking too many questions about the fact that Saul’s your dad.”

“He’s not my dad,” I mutter, even though I know that, technically, I probably am his biological offspring. He might be my father, but that doesn’t make him my dad.

Of course, that starts me thinking about the accident again, and I don’t want to go down that road. I want a distraction. “Do we have to go straight to the OC?”

“Well…I guess not. Did you need to stop somewhere?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say
need
to stop, but…” I sigh. “Is there somewhere with junk food?”

“Ha! Like cheeseburgers and fries?”

It sounds really good, good enough to make me drool, especially if you add bacon, but I shake my head.

“Skip the burger. I don’t do meat. But God yes,
fries
. With ketchup. Maybe pizza or grilled cheese.”

“Why no meat?”

“Personal choice. Why should a cow die so I can have a burger?”

“Well, good point, except…animal sacrifice isn’t required anymore. Most meat comes from the food replicators. So your burger isn’t actually from the cow…the machine just replicates the chemical structure.”

“Oh, cool. Like on
Star Trek
.”

I don’t really expect him to get the reference, but he chuckles. “Yes. Tea Earl Grey Hot.”

“What?”

“Oh. That’s past your time, maybe. But yeah, it’s the same principle. Except the ones at the OC will be the expensive models. No lights or weird sounds while waiting for your burger to show up.”

“So…what happened to all the cows and pigs and chickens? Ranchers and farmers?”

“The various species are kept on reserves, and we have their genetic structure on file in case of unintentional extinction.  There are still some people outside the cities who farm, who do things the old ways. I considered joining them…after CHRONOS was disbanded. My talents would be more useful there than in the city, and it would be closer to the life I prefer. But once they decided to open the museum, it wasn’t really an option. And I always feel like what they’re doing out there is…I don’t know. Pretend, I guess. Play-acting. That type of life isn’t cost-effective once a society reaches a certain size. You’re better off replicating. Although you
can
get real meat at some of the posher places, like the OC. It just costs more in credits than most people have.”