Time's Mirror: A CHRONOS Files Novella (The CHRONOS Files) (8 page)

The dress is gorgeous. I hold it up against my body and look in the mirror. But I don’t try it on. I tell myself it’s because looking like Little Fuzzy below the knee would totally ruin the effect, but that’s only a tiny part of it.

I miss Deb. Half the fun of going anywhere was sharing it with her.

“Octavia, could you play the top 100 songs of 1983, in reverse order, please?”

“I’m sorry. If you pick a year after 2100, I’d be happy to comply.”

Oh well. Worth a shot.

“Do you have a specific artist—”

“Michael Jackson.” I say without hesitation. “1982.
Thriller
album.”

When the first notes of “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” hit my ears, I sink down onto the bed. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine I’m back in our room and this has all been one long, extended bad dream.

Almost.

O
BJECTIVIST
C
LUB,
R
OOM 1013

W
ASHINGTON,
EC

December 31, 2305, 9:11 p.m.

“Tate Poulsen has just exited the lift,” Octavia announces. “Shall I let him in when he arrives?”

“Yes, please. And change the music to…um…Spandau Ballet. 1983. ‘True.’ Lower volume twenty percent. Oh, and dim the lights.”

Since I’d prefer that Tate doesn’t know I’ve been sitting on the couch staring at the door for the past twenty minutes, I duck into the bedroom and check my reflection one last time. My makeup is perfect after a little bit of trial and error in the Juvapod. The “shaving” was also easy and painless, although if I’d followed the instructions of the jerk at the information desk, I’d have been bald from head to toe. I’m not entirely convinced that his misinformation was accidental. The man looked like he’d swallowed cat poop when he saw my name on his screen.

The butterflies in my stomach are buzzing around like they’re on speed. I’d feel much better if Deb were here to confirm that this is the most fantastic I’ve ever looked.

Come on, Pru, you can do this.

Ten slow, deep breaths before I walk in.

And…Tate’s facing the other way, toward the window, which completely ruins my grand entrance.

He looks really good, although he could use a haircut. The navy blue suit sets off his unusually broad shoulders. If Tate lived in my time, he’d never be able to buy anything off the rack. That chest would split J. C. Penney’s shirts faster than the Hulk. And the cut of the pants is different these days. A little more like something a football player would wear. Not shorter, just a bit more formfitting.

I wait a few seconds, hoping he’ll sense me standing there, but whoever tweaked his genetic makeup must not have been worried about other Vikings sneaking up on him.

And then I notice the headphones.

They look like
my
headphones.

He doesn’t look up until I tap him on the arm. His eyes move from my face down my body, the welcoming smile fading along the way. Then he takes a step back and pulls off the headphones.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” I try to keep my face from falling, but it’s no use. “You don’t like it.”

“No! No…you look great, Pru. It’s just…I thought I was the one with the big surprise, and you’ve aced me. That dress just…” He exhales loudly and shakes his head. “Let’s just say it makes me wonder what happened to the kid I left here a few hours ago.”

I give him my best sexy smile. “She wasn’t actually a kid. You just weren’t looking close enough.”

“I guess not. And judging from the music, I see you’ve learned to navigate the entertainment options. You may not even want this.”

“You fixed my headphones?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out my Walkman, no longer shattered. “I swiped it from the side pocket of your bag today when you were in the lav…hope you don’t mind? I’d have asked, but I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“You found batteries? Coralys said they don’t make those anymore, that they couldn’t even replicate them.”

“Well, not exactly. A guy I know over in historical tech wedged something in there that will work as a power source…should last a whole lot longer than batteries. Fixed the front cover, too.”

Once he has the headphones over my ears he pushes play and the announcer says, “…peaking at number six on the charts in July, coming at number sixty-three, ‘Come Dancing’!”

Then The Kinks start singing, but it’s the voice in the background that stops my heart. Deb is yelling, “Told you, told you, told you! The Kinks. ‘Come Dancing.’ Right there at number sixty-three. I hit it on the nose. Five points for me!”

Even with the stabilizers, my heels feel a little shaky right now.

“Are you okay? Pru?”

I hug him, partly to mask my emotion, but also because this was really thoughtful. “Thank you so much.”

Tate’s back stiffens when I press against him. He doesn’t push me away, but he doesn’t really return the hug, either—just sort of pats me on the back and steps away.

“There’s a second part to the surprise,” he says. “The CHRONOS music archives took a bit of a hit in the bombing, but they’re gradually getting the stuff they stored off-site back into the system. My friend Dana let me in this afternoon so I could put together this…she said you used to call it a mixtape?”

I nod. The
tape
part is right, at any rate, although I can’t remember anyone ever saying
mixtape
.

“I didn’t have another cassette, and I didn’t want to record over the ones with your sister, so…Octavia, play Tate Poulsen music list, Mixtape 1984, reverse order, with position, artist, and title.”

There’s a brief pause and then Octavia says, “Number 100. James Ingram and Michael McDonald. ‘Yah Mo B There.’”

The song starts, confirming my worst fears. Without me there to keep tabs on it, 1980s music is going straight into the dumper. Even Deb made fun of that tune. Oh well, at least it
barely
made the list.

Of course, I don’t actually
say
how much the song sucks, because that would sound ungrateful.

“Thank you.” I smile up at him—even in these heels, the only way to smile at Tate is
up
—and squeeze his arm, resisting the urge to hug him again. Being pushed away once is quite enough for one evening.

Maybe he’s gay?

And then the little voice at the back of my head that sounds just like Mother chimes in.

More likely he thinks you look like a little kid playing dress-up. Couldn’t you have found something more age appropriate?

Oh, shut up, Mother.

Once we’re in the elevator, Tate gives me another long look. His eyes are still a little uneasy, but he smiles. “Did I mention you look really nice? That color is perfect on you.”

“Thanks.” I look away quickly, partly because I’m nervous and partly because I don’t really believe him after his initial reaction.

When the door slides open on level two, my first thought is that we’re outside. It’s only after we step into the corridor that I realize we’re overlooking a sunken room that just resembles a forest at sunset. The walls are a panorama of trees. There’s a brook off in the distance, and the ceiling is lit in streaks of orange, pink, and purple. Orbs of light about the size of tennis balls dance in the air above the guests’ heads, like giant fireflies or incandescent bubbles, bobbing and weaving as people move about. It’s almost as though I’m walking into a scene from
The Hobbit
or
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
.

The music has an otherworldly feel too, like something you’d hear at the Renaissance festival we go to each year—except even weirder. It’s like all of the Ren-nerds are playing their tunes on electrical instruments, or one of those bizarre theremin things, instead of flutes and lyres.

There are far more people than I expected, clustered in small groups, some eating, some talking, a few…I guess they’re dancing? While it’s probably the only kind of dance you
could
do to this music—fluid and trancelike—it would get them laughed off the floor at the 9:30 Club.

Tate’s already in the hallway, but I instinctively take a step back into the lift. After my little adventure earlier at the Juvapod infodesk, I can’t help but wonder how welcome I’ll really be.

“I’m sorry. I’m just…maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

He shakes his head, grinning as he grabs my arm. “Oh, no. I’d hate for the first impression you leave on your new colleagues to be me carrying you into Greenwich Hall. Because I will.”

I narrow my eyes, but don’t move.

“Come on, Pru. Campbell is expecting you. You have to meet him at some point. And…it would be a waste to go hide in your room, when you look this gorgeous.”

Okay, that wins me over.

“Fine.” I take the arm he’s holding out. “But don’t wander off. I don’t know these people and some of them…”

I don’t finish the sentence, and he shoots me a questioning look. I was going to say some of them would be happier if he’d left me in the rubble of the CHRONOS building, but I just give him a nervous smile.

“Nothing. Let’s do this.”

We walk down the short flight of stairs and into the room itself. The aroma of bacon—which always smells good even if I don’t eat it—hits my nose as we turn the corner. Tate snags two glasses from a tray and hands one to me. It looks like champagne. I don’t object, since I have no idea what the alcohol laws are in this time. Or maybe it doesn’t even have alcohol anymore? I take a sip and discover that the bubbles are nice. It might actually be good if I could add a packet of Sweet’n Low.

Tate seems a little distracted, craning his neck around like he’s looking for someone. After a moment or two, he relaxes.

“Come on. Let’s go meet Campbell.”

We make our way through the room toward a back corner, where an older man sits in a high-backed chair. Like Tate, he’s head and shoulders above everyone else. As we get closer, I see why. The chair is on a raised platform.

The man reminds me of a cartoon we saw in history class last year. Some New York City politician named Tweed. Big nose, big belly, more hair on the bottom half of his head than on the top. A cigar is chomped between his teeth, and he looks out over the room like it’s his kingdom. One of the lighted orbs floating around the room dips down to intercept a curl of smoke rising above the man’s head. The overweight black dog stretched out at his feet, gnawing on a large bone, doesn’t look particularly friendly.

“Is that Morgen Campbell up on the throne?”

Tate chuckles. “As much as you probably don’t want to hear it, that’s exactly what Saul called it.”

“Seems pretty obvious to me. Is his dog nice?”

“Not especially. But I’ve never known Cyrus to bite, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

I still keep a wary eye on the creature as we approach the Royal Lord of the OC. His gaze flickers in our direction when we’re still a few yards away, but he waits until we’re right in front of him to actually look at us.

“Ah, Poulsen. And this must be the infamous Ms. Shaw.” My expression must shift a bit at the name, because he adds, “Or do you go by Rand?”

“Neither. Prudence Pierce. You can just call me Pru.”

He nods and gives me a more thorough appraisal, taking in the dress. “Even if you choose to abandon their names, I must say you’re a delightful combination of your parental DNA. I do wish Saul were here to see you. It would be interesting to see whether paternal instinct would keep him from drooling down your cleavage.”

Okay, this guy is a creep. I have absolutely no idea how to respond to his comment, so I just glance up at Tate.

“Ignore him, Pru. Morgen just likes to see if he can get a rise out newbies.”

“On the contrary. I simply like to assess the mental prowess of the people around me. In Ms. Rand—I beg your pardon, in
Pru’s
case, she looks like an adult. Very much like an adult, in fact. Still, I suspect there’s a scared little girl hiding inside. It’s nice to see that you’re putting our amenities to excellent use…or did Poulsen dress you?”

“I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, Mr. Campbell.”

“It’s just Campbell. Or Morgen, if you prefer. And I’m sure you’re very capable, but just to put your mind at ease, the information attendant in the Juvapod center has been fired.”

My first inclination is to ask how he knew about the incident, but who knows what sort of surveillance Campbell has in this place. My second inclination is to say that he didn’t need to fire the man, but then I think about what very nearly happened. I’d look like the woman in that
Star Trek
movie if another customer hadn’t overheard the exchange and warned me to carefully specify
which
sections of your body when you ordered hair removal.

“What happened at the Juvapods?” Tate asks me. “You said—”

“Just a…miscommunication.” I turn back to Campbell. “I’m glad to see that you don’t tolerate incompetent employees.”