At least, that was what the Corps officials told him. There’d been chocolate then, too—a mug of cocoa going cold on the coffee table. Far ignored it, staring hard at the officer’s infinity hourglass badge, eyes traveling its loop around and around. Your mother is lost…. Sergeant Hammond, too. I’m sorry, son. We’ve done everything we can. What happened to them will remain a mystery.
Even at seven years old, Far refused to believe this. He knew, he just knew, that when he wore a badge like that, he’d go back in time and find the Ab Aeterno.
“Eat.” Imogen held out a spoon, waiting for him to take it. “Sugar and fat heal all wounds.”
“You can’t afford that,” Far said to the ceiling.
She shrugged and dropped the utensil. It landed with a thud on his chest. “I’ve been saving up some credits, working OT in the shop.”
Imogen had attended the Academy on the Historian track, which was popular and thus overpopulated, producing more licensed Historians than expeditions could take on. Imogen applied for every single CTM mission she could, only to watch the position fall to another, more experienced Historian. Once she’d been put on standby (she’d bought gelato in celebration of that occasion as well—lemon lavender), but nothing came of it.
In the meantime Imogen worked as a style consultant in a boutique, dressing the rich and fabulous according to their favorite datastream era. The work at Before & Beyond was menial and underpaying, but Imogen always came home with stories. She liked to reenact incidents featuring her more dramatic customers. There was Eleanor Chun, a senator’s wife who was so addicted to Roaring Twenties datastreams that it was rumored she’d tried to bribe her way onto a 1920s New York City CTM expedition. There was Lucille Marché, who only ever wore white stolas with embroidered edges and was on a strict diet of soy-flavored meal blocks. There was Patrick Lucas, who always custom-ordered top hats and other elaborate millinery but never paid the credits when they arrived.
Far had never met these people, but he felt like he knew them. Imogen’s impersonations were almost better than datastreams, which was good, because Far didn’t plan on watching a datastream ever again.
“What happened today?” He needed a story now. Anything to derail his mind from the dark track it was going down.
“I got chewed out for bringing Mrs. Chun a flapper dress a size too large.” The silver bangles Imogen wore chimed as she stabbed her spoon into the gelato. “Another costuming order came in. The CTM Churchill is preparing to explore fourteen hundreds Florence. So I’m going to be drowning in Renaissance gowns for the next week. Checking the Recorder’s entire wardrobe for accu—”
She stopped midsyllable, a sudden jerk in conversation that startled Far. Why had she—Oh. Right. CTMs. Time travel. Wardrobes.
So much for derailing.
Imogen stayed quiet for another moment. The spoonful of gelato in her hand was starting to drip all over the rug. “I’m sure you can file a formal appeal.”
That was Imogen. Eternal optimist. The grass is still green on this side and never ever ever give up type of girl. Usually Far found her view refreshing. A dose of color and sugar to counter the cynic inside him.
She meant well. She always did. But today Far found no comfort in her encouragements. Hashing up in an Academy Sim was the end of your career. Hashing up in actual history could be the end of the world. When it came to time travel, there was no such thing as redos, and as Instructor Marin had so bluntly reminded Far, he was not an exception.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” he said.
“Right.” Imogen’s mouth twisted. “Well, I didn’t spend fifteen hundred credits on gelato to watch it melt. So you better get your tail off the floor and eat it with me.”
Far didn’t want to move, but fifteen hundred credits was over twenty hours clocked at the boutique. The thought of Imogen’s hard work melting into nothing forced him to grab the spoon and sit up.
Enough had been lost today.
They took alternate jabs at the golden cream. Imogen filled the spaces between bites with New Forum gossip and dress dramas, trying her best to edit any mentions of time travel. But the gaps were too obvious. Time travel was discovered only thirty-one years ago, but its cultural presence was inextricable. Everything revolved around it: entertainment, fashion, science, architecture, agriculture. You couldn’t walk outside without seeing a twenty-second-century flash-leather suit or triggering an implant advert for ZOMBEES? HONEY—THE SWEETNESS IS BACK (APPROVED BY THE CENTRAL BOARD OF AGRICULTURAL REHABILITATION). No matter how carefully Imogen censored her tales, stinging details still slipped through.
BUZZ.
Far was almost relieved when the flat’s doorbell jerked Imogen to her feet. She bounded to the door—purple hair flouncing—and opened it to find nothing but hallway.
“That’s weird. Oh—” Imogen bent down, staring at something Far couldn’t see.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s… a letter.” His cousin nudged the door shut. “For you.”
A letter. Far felt the hair on the base of his neck bristling, though he wasn’t quite sure why.
“This is old paper. Real ink,” Imogen noted as she handed the envelope over. Elegant penmanship marked Far’s name on the front. “I’ve only seen stuff like this in museums and Sims.”
The prickly feeling spilled down Far’s shoulders and back as he tore open the envelope. The card inside was covered in the same loopy writing—
Second chances are rare. Don’t waste yours.
Eleven o’clock tonight.
The Forum, Zone 1
Far stared and stared at the letters, waiting for them to rearrange or vanish in front of him. The card was wrong. Second chances weren’t rare. They just…weren’t.
“What is it?” Imogen asked.
Old paper, real ink, second chances, a night-cloaked meeting in Old Rome… It reeked of danger and black market schemes, calling to Far in a way he could not ignore: DON’T WASTE THIS.
He didn’t want to lie to his cousin, but he wasn’t ready to tell her the truth, either.
“An invitation.” Far folded the card into quarters and tucked it into the pocket of that ridiculous waistcoat. His chest one gram of paper heavier, one whole future lighter.
5
YESTERDAY YET
ZONE 1 WAS MORE OF A museum than a neighborhood. Rent in the Old Rome district reached astronomical heights, despite its leaky roofs and primitive plumbing. The only people who could afford the luxury of nonluxury were the very same people who frequented Imogen’s shop. They shelled out credits by the zeros for flats they used once or twice a month. If that.
As ridiculous as it seemed, Far understood the draw. The buildings might be crumbling, but they were also mesmerizing, covered in wistful vines, their stucco as colored and cracked as Easter eggs. When you walked the streets cobbled with fountains and gelaterias, grooved with the tracks of automobiles and horse-drawn carts, it was almost like stepping back in time.
Almost.