“When will you go once you pass?” Priya asked.
That was the question, wasn’t it? Far had spent his entire life watching other times. A whole quilt of cultures and humanity… prehistory, ancient Greece, ancient Rome, medieval Europe, the Renaissance, the Age of Enlightenment, the Industrial Revolution, the Age of Progress, all the way to Central time. And that was just the Western Civilization track. So much was still unexplored—for while there were hundreds of licensed time travelers, there were only so many CTMs to go around. The finite life spans of the explorers they carried covered just a fraction of history.
The possibilities were endless. Almost.
“I could go back and kill Hitler,” Far joked. “Isn’t that every time traveler’s dream?”
Priya shot him a you shouldn’t kid about that look from under her bangs.
“Whenever the Corps wants to send me, I guess,” he recanted.
“You don’t have any preferences? You aren’t scared you’re going to get stuck trying to collect bubonic plague cultures from corpses in the name of science?”
When Far was fourteen, he watched a datastream of the Black Death. Even at that age he could tell it was highly edited: choppy shots, faded audio. The Recorder taking the footage had gagged at a blurred-out cart piled high with bodies. “Not my first choice.”
When the med-droid finished its ritual pricking and prodding, it rolled toward the door, calling Far along. “Proceed to the next chamber to acquire your final exam Sim wardrobe.”
“I want to see it all,” he told the Medic.
“Speaking of seeing it all…” Priya bit her lip, but her smile was too strong to hide. Every other corner of her face lit with it as she nodded to the door where the med-droid had vanished. “You should go get dressed.”
Far found his final exam Sim suit in the next room, pressed to perfection and composed of too many pieces. Wool stockings went on first, followed by knee-length breeches and a dress shirt with rabid lace frothing from its ends. These ruffles peeked out of a blue waistcoat embroidered with vines and some long-extinct flower Far couldn’t remember the name of. A green-and-gold-striped coat weighted all this into place. The outfit was bookended with leather shoes and a powdered wig.
“Not the plague, then,” Far muttered as he reached for the stockings.
He’d experienced a few Sims from the eighteenth century—witnessing the signing of the United States’ Declaration of Independence, sailing the Pacific as part of James Cook’s crew, watching the streets of revolution-era Paris crumble into parades and chaos—but it wasn’t a time he’d studied thoroughly.
It made sense. The point of the exam was to demonstrate how well you could improvise. Time travelers had to use costumes, knowledge, and technology to blend into their surrounding environments. On board a traditional CTM, the responsibility for providing flawless covers fell to the Historian. They assembled the Recorder’s wardrobe: clothes, hairstyle, and translation technology… the works. They were responsible for briefing the Recorder on the time period they were walking into. They ID’d key historical figures and sent instructions about how to behave over the comms.
During examination Sims, the Historian’s role was played by a computer linked directly to Far’s comm. It greeted him with the same accent as the med-droid: “Welcome to your final examination Sim, Farway Gaius McCarthy. Your mission is to observe and record an hour-long datastream. You will be graded on the quality and content of your datastream as well as your recording methods.”
The usual, then. Far snapped his breeches into place. For Crux sake, they were tight. It was a miracle the human race managed to keep procreating after years in pants like these…. “When exactly will we be going?”
“May fifteenth, 1776 AD. Seven o’clock in the evening.”
The shirt was snug, too, and the waistcoat pushed the ruffles up so they feathered Far’s neck, making him feel ostrichlike. “Who wears this many layers in May?”
“The residents at the Palace of Versailles,” the computer informed him.
Versailles. A glamorous den of royals, where the air was prickly with wig powder and the golden halls swished with gowns so voluminous they could second for circus tents. There were girls in Far’s Academy class who would kill—or at least significantly maim—to be placed in such a Sim.
Far shouldered the overcoat, secured his wig, and ran through his pre-Sim mantra: I am Farway Gaius McCarthy, son of Empra McCarthy. Birth date unavailable. With timelessness in my blood and nowhere calling to my heart. Born on the Ab Aeterno, for Ab Aeterno. I am a single Sim away from all of time.
The Palace of Versailles, France, 1776 AD would be a cinch.
He switched on his recording devices and stepped into the Sim.
2
LET HIM EAT CAKE
PLUNGING INTO ANOTHER TIME WAS ALWAYS a dizzying affair. Vertigo and culture shock and déjà vu all crushed together. Far found the reeling sensation passed sooner if he focused on a single point. The first sight he caught in Versailles’s Hall of Mirrors was, well, a mirror. Far hardly recognized himself—white-wigged and poufy. Only his sharp cliff of a nose helped anchor his own reflection.
The rest of the room settled into place. Far knew he was surrounded by hologram plates—how else would you train would-be time travelers without screwing up the world?—but they did a hashing fine job of convincing his senses otherwise. Cavernous ceilings arched above him: chandeliers dripping like a goddess’s tears, gold pouring from every surface. There were gueridons in the form of sumptuous women, seats embroidered with squirrels and flowers, courtiers buzzing high on gossip and champagne. And courtiers, and courtiers…
He’d walked into the middle of a party.
Dozens, if not scores, of people milled through the room. How many eyes that might see Far? How many ears that might hear him? Yes, the partygoers were products of the hologram plates beneath his feet, but their programming was meant to mirror flesh and blood. If Far did anything to attract their attention, his score would suffer.
At least his getup blended in. Their outfits were as outlandish as Far’s. Frill and color mixed through the mirror’s mercury gloss like a bad med-patch trip. The women’s beehive hair climbed impossibly high. Makeup caked their faces to cover the smallpox scars of sickly youth.
One woman was brighter than the rest. She didn’t stand in the center of the party yet she was its center. Her dress billowed seafoam green—light as air, with a spring-day glow. Real ostrich feathers sprouted from the whorls of her hair. Her makeup was as heavy as the others: gossamer powder, eyebrows perfectly arched as if they’d been drawn on. The woman wore these things like magic, trapping an entire ring of courtiers in her spell.