Now, Then, and Everywhen (Chronos Origins) Read online

  ALSO BY RYSA WALKER

  THE DELPHI TRILOGY

  NOVELS

  The Delphi Effect

  The Delphi Resistance

  The Delphi Revolution

  NOVELLA

  The Abandoned

  THE CHRONOS FILES

  NOVELS

  Timebound

  Time’s Edge

  Time’s Divide

  GRAPHIC NOVEL

  Time Trial

  NOVELLAS

  Time’s Echo

  Time’s Mirror

  Simon Says

  SHORT STORIES

  “The Gambit” In The Time Travel Chronicles

  “Whack Job” In Alt.history 102

  “2092” In Dark Beyond The Stars

  “Splinter” In Clones: The Anthology

  “The Circle-That-Whines” In Chronicle Worlds:

  Tails Of Dystopia

  “Full Circle” In Oceans: The Anthology

  ENTER HADDENWOOD

  As The Crow Flies (With Caleb Amsel)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Rysa Walker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781612189192

  ISBN-10: 1612189199

  Cover design by M.S. Corley

  For Maddy, Ian, and Ryan, three intrepid time travelers I’ve had the pleasure of watching grow into kind, bright, and generous young adults. My greatest hope for the future is the knowledge that our fate will soon be in the hands of your generation.

  ∞Contents∞

  FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID (AUGUST 3, 1966)

  1

  FROM A BRIEF HISTORY OF CHRONOS, 4TH ED. (2302)

  2

  FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID (AUGUST 28, 1963)

  3

  FROM THE DIARY OF KATE PIERCE-KELLER

  4

  FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID (MAY 3, 1969)

  5

  FROM THE NEW YORK HOURLY INTREPID (NOVEMBER 19, 2098)

  6

  FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID (JANUARY 20, 1960)

  7

  FROM THE GENETICS WARS: AN ALTERNATE HISTORY, BY JAMES L. COLEMAN (2109)

  8

  FROM THE DIARY OF KATHERINE SHAW

  9

  FROM THE NEW YORK HOURLY INTREPID (MAY 3, 2111)

  10

  FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID (JUNE 20, 1965)

  11

  FROM THE DIARY OF KATE PIERCE-KELLER

  12

  FROM RECORDS OF THE HOUSE UN-AMERICAN ACTIVITIES COMMITTEE

  13

  FROM THE LIVERPOOL DAILY POST (JULY 5, 1957)

  14

  FROM TEMPORAL DILEMMA USER’S GUIDE, 2ND ED. (2293)

  15

  FROM THE DIARY OF KATE PIERCE-KELLER

  16

  THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID (MARCH 7, 1990)

  17

  FROM THE DIARY OF KATE PIERCE-KELLER

  18

  FROM THE MANUAL OF THE UNITED KLANS OF AMERICA (1964)

  19

  FROM THE GENETICS WARS: AN ALTERNATE HISTORY, BY JAMES L. COLEMAN (2109)

  20

  FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID (MARCH 27, 1965)

  21

  FROM THE PHYSICS OF MANY PATHS BY STANFORD FULLER (2032)

  22

  FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID (AUGUST 20, 1966)

  23

  FROM THE DIARY OF KATE PIERCE-KELLER

  24

  25

  FROM TEMPORAL DILEMMA USER’S GUIDE, 2ND ED. (2293)

  26

  27

  FROM TEMPORAL DILEMMA USER’S GUIDE, 2ND ED. (2293)

  28

  FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID (JUNE 26, 1995)

  29

  30

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID (AUGUST 3, 1966)

  Boycotts and Bonfires over Beatles’ Remarks

  (Birmingham, Ala.) Disc jockeys from around the country have banned songs by the British band the Beatles in the wake of John Lennon’s comments recently printed in teen magazine DATEbook. Lennon’s statement that the Fab Four are currently “more popular than Jesus” has sparked outrage and calls for a boycott of the band’s upcoming thirteen-city US tour.

  A spokesman for the group has confirmed that Lennon did, in fact, make this remark in an interview with London journalist Maureen Cleave back in March. The singer also noted that he was unsure which would last longer—Christianity or rock ’n’ roll.

  Two Birmingham DJs have called on listeners to send any Beatles albums, posters, or souvenirs to their station, WAQY, to be used in a “Beatles bonfire” on August 19, when the group is scheduled to perform in Memphis, Tennessee. Other disc jockeys throughout the South and elsewhere have scheduled similar events. The Ku Klux Klan has also entered the controversy, with Dale Walton, Mississippi’s Imperial Wizard of the Knights of the Green Forest, imploring teens to “cut their Beatle wigs off” and contribute them to a public burning to protest the upcoming tour.

  ∞1∞

  TYSON

  OBJECTIVIST CLUB

  WASHINGTON, EC

  JULY 21, 2304

  Richard Vier tips back the last of his drink and looks me directly in the eye. “You need to relax, Tyson. A minor mistake like that isn’t going to have a ripple effect. If it had caused so much as a blip on the timeline, you’d have gotten a message from Angelo, and you wouldn’t be here right now. You’d be back at HQ, working with a cleanup crew to undo whatever you did. Believe me. That’s what happened to Armin, the music historian who preceded me.”

  “Did they fire him?”

  “Yep. Reclassified as a manual laborer. I think he’s on a water-reclamation project somewhere in Australia now.”

  Richard manages to hold a straight face, but only for a moment. “No, they didn’t fire him! He finished out fourteen years and retired from fieldwork, like anyone else. He’s off teaching somewhere now, raising kids. Living the good life. I’m just saying mistakes do happen from time to time, but they’ll let you know. And they’ll work with you to fix it. No message means nothing happened.”

  He’s probably right. Had I triggered a major change, something that altered the timeline in any way, I’d have found a note in my CHRONOS diary instructing me to return to headquarters. Even a small change—some tiny wrinkle that smoothed itself out in a year or so—would have earned me a warning. There was nothing like that in the diary, so I probably do need to relax. But it’s reassuring to have confirmation from someone who has a few years’ experience under his belt, especially when I’ve spent the past several hours being lectured back in 1963 by the woman who owns the diner where I’m working. Ida has no clue that I’m a time traveler, but she clearly thought my mistake was a very big damn deal, big enough that I was sure she was going to send me packing.

  That would have meant scrapping the project until I could scout out a new location in a different town. Not the end of the world, but also not something that I want to happen. I’ve
taken a few day trips on my own, but this is my first major research trip without a supervising partner, and the very last thing I need on my record is a disaster that would require a cleanup crew. Or worse yet, a retraction. Retractions are rare, but the one historian I know who was in the middle of one says they really mess with your head. You get saddled with double memories, where one side of your brain remembers making the jump, but the other side remembers spending that time back at CHRONOS. And if you have to retract a series of jumps, rather than a day trip, you spend a week or so in the isolation unit to avoid spreading double memories to other historians you might run into in the halls or at meetings.

  “You’d probably have felt it, too,” Rich adds. “If there was a change, I mean. When it happened to Armin, he said it was like getting kicked in the gut, although those of us here at HQ were far enough removed in time that we didn’t feel anything. But that’s exactly why they stick us in the out-of-the-way spots for the first few solo jumps. Even a minor error in a city like Washington or Birmingham during the summer of 1963 might have cascaded into a problem. But in Spartanburg, they’re observing the major historical events as much as you are. The only difference is that they don’t have to travel back two and a half centuries to do it. Although, to be honest, I still don’t see how a box of contraband fried chicken could have tipped the scale even if you were closer to the action.”

  “It wasn’t just the chicken. The problem, apparently, is that I went through the front door to deliver the chicken.”

  “Instead of going through the ‘colored entrance’?”

  “No. See, that’s what tripped me up. There isn’t actually a ‘colored entrance’ at that courthouse in 1963. I watched a black man in a suit mount the steps and walk through the door that same day, just as I was rounding the corner. The deal is that most of the restaurants are still segregated, and the judge should have ordered his chicken box from The Dixie Chicken on the north side of town, like all of the other white folks. But Ida used to work for this judge’s family, and he had a hankerin’, as Ida would say, for her hush puppies. So he rings up the Southside Diner and orders a four-piece box with extra pups. Ida assigns me to deliver it. Somehow I was supposed to know that this sort of clandestine delivery had to be done at the back door.”

  “And that’s probably why it didn’t affect anything, Tyce. This is the kind of mistake you could have made if you really were just new in town. You can fully understand that a town is segregated, can even have an encyclopedic knowledge of the history of segregation in the United States, and still not grasp the specific political intricacies of a fried-chicken war. So, when are you headed back in?”

  “Thursday. I was scheduled to go back tomorrow, but I got someone to swap jump-slots with me. And no, it’s not just because this chicken thing unnerved me. I think I’ve sweated off ten pounds in the past week. Ida doesn’t air-condition the kitchen or the apartment upstairs that I’m renting out. I need a few days to rehydrate.” I glance around the club’s main lounge. “Are you sure Katherine’s coming?”

  “Of course, she’s coming. Have you ever known Saul to skip one of Campbell’s events?”

  I’m about to remind him that Saul has been known to come on his own, without Katherine, but he’s probably right. Even though Katherine thinks Morgen Campbell is an ass—a view with which Rich and I fully concur—she rarely lets Saul out of her sight these days.

  All sections of the Objectivist Club are opulent, even the main dining hall downstairs. This area, Redwing Hall, is normally members only, except for the few times a year that Campbell hosts a CHRONOS event. Entering this room feels almost like we’ve traveled back in time to the era when men of wealth and distinction gathered in dark, richly paneled rooms like this as a respite from the daily grind of ruling the world. That appearance is definitely one that Campbell likes to cultivate, and the fact that a portrait of his younger self hangs on the wall along with other leaders of the group who preceded him leaves no doubt that he considers himself a titan of society. Even at these CHRONOS mixers that include lesser mortals like me and Rich, Campbell can’t resist a touch of exclusivity—there are members-only side rooms where men (and the occasional woman) can retreat for brandy, cigars with real tobacco, and a game of chess or backgammon.

  I usually steer clear of these parties, partly because there’s always a risk that I’ll be one of the historians Campbell corners for a chat. The man has more money than Croesus, but even with all that wealth, he still can’t buy the only thing he really wants—the CHRONOS gene. His parents would have had to purchase that for him before he was born. I don’t know what genetic gift his family chose. Probably an intelligence boost, although based on the conversations I’ve had with the man, I think it’s equally likely that they boosted his ego. At any rate, since he can’t travel back in history, he surrounds himself with those who can and pumps us for information to use in the historical simulations he likes to play with Saul and a few of the other historians in his immediate circle of friends.

  As usual, Campbell is holding court in one corner of the room, with a drink in one hand, a cigar in the other, and a ruby OC signet ring on his pudgy pinky finger. Katherine once said he reminds her of this historical figure from the nineteenth century, a corrupt politician everyone called Boss Tweed. One of the guests must have said something to amuse him, because Campbell laughs and nods approvingly, then flicks the ash from his cigar onto the floor, taking care to avoid singeing the ancient beast sleeping at his feet. Rumor has it that the dog, a fat, lumbering Doberman named Cyrus, is nearly thirty. Most of the small clear bubbles floating around to filter pollutants out of the air hover near that side of the room, clearing away the noxious fumes from Morgen’s cigar and Cyrus’s faulty digestive system.

  On the plus side, however, booze flows freely at any event Campbell hosts—and it’s half-decent, unlike the watered-down swill that the food units spit out. When I showed up after work stressed out over the chicken incident, Rich argued that what I needed was to unwind. Have a few drinks. A decent dinner. Maybe even socialize a bit.

  And while he may have been right, he also had an ulterior motive. He wants someone to talk to while he waits for Katherine Shaw to arrive. Someone to make it look like he’s just hanging out with his roommate, enjoying the party. He’d still have come even if I’d refused, but odds are good he’d have spent the entire night sitting alone, hoping Katherine would grow tired of listening to Saul and Campbell argue about some mundane bit of history and grace him with her presence for a few minutes.

  A blond woman is approaching the table, but it’s not Katherine. This woman is the other reason I generally steer clear of these events. Morgen Campbell’s daughter, Alisa, almost always puts in an appearance. It’s usually a brief appearance, lasting only long enough for her to have a few drinks, find someone to take back up to her apartment—and, of course, make sure that her father sees her leaving with said someone.

  I have been that someone on several occasions. More than I’d like to admit, actually. Alisa is a few years older than me, and undeniably gorgeous. She’s smart, too. And she’s actually not a horrible person. But Alisa Campbell has major daddy issues. Morgen doesn’t seem to give a damn about who his daughter has sex with or anything else she does—which may well be the root of Alisa’s problems. I always wind up feeling a little used after these encounters, even though I guess I’m using her, too.

  Alisa has one of the younger historians in tow tonight. I don’t recall his name, but he’s currently in his second year of field training, so he’s eighteen or maybe nineteen. I’m torn between feeling relieved that Alisa has already picked her companion for the evening and feeling an odd combination of envy and pity for the kid, who is staring at her like he can’t believe his luck. He’s going to have a very interesting night or two, and then—almost certainly—a broken heart and a shattered ego. I’m grateful that she can’t ask to join us. The table will only accommodate two stools, and I don’t want to witness any mor
e of this guy’s impending heartbreak than absolutely necessary.

  Alisa places a proprietary hand on my thigh. She’s already had a few drinks, judging from the scent of whiskey on her breath. Probably a few of the mood enhancers Campbell has at these events, too.

  “Tyce! You naughty boy. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  Her companion’s face crumples.

  “Spur-of-the-moment decision,” I say. “And I needed to talk to Rich about . . . some work stuff.”

  She pouts. “Are you done?”

  “Nope,” I say cheerfully. “Haven’t even started.”

  Given that Rich is my roommate, we can talk work anytime. If Alisa wasn’t already mostly buzzed, she might have remembered that. But she’s never paid the slightest attention to Rich. He’s not a bad-looking guy by any means, but she has a type, and thin and bookish ain’t it.

  Alisa exaggerates the pout a bit and gives my thigh a playful little slap. “You are no fun at all, Tyson Reyes.” She presses her body against the side of her companion. “Guess it’s a good thing I already have plans.”

  They head back toward the bar. The guy doesn’t look quite as smitten as he did when they walked over. Maybe that’s just as well.

  Rich’s head jerks up, and I follow his gaze toward the lift at the back of the club. His eye seems to have been drawn to another flash of blond hair, but it’s definitely not Katherine. Tate Poulsen is a half meter taller than Katherine, and a solid wall of muscle.

  “She’s coming,” Rich repeats, when he sees my grin. “I didn’t actually think that was her.”

  “I’m not doubting you. But that reminds me.” I pause for a moment to pull up a couple of images on my retinal screen and then send the first one over to Rich. “Look like anyone you know?”

  He’s silent for a moment. “Where did you get this?”

  “Spartanburg 1963. Drugstore newsstand.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Poulsen doesn’t do modern. How could he have posed for a drawing like this?”

  “Well, he did make one jump to study some neo-Viking group, although that was the 1990s, I think. But wait. Check out the next one before you rush to any conclusions.”