Time's Divide (The Chronos Files Book 3) (32 page)

We walk around the pool to the row of doors on the other side. For some reason it doesn’t feel like it’s a swimming pool to me. Maybe it’s the lack of chlorine smell. Usually with an indoor pool this size the fumes are really noticeable, but I can’t really smell anything.

“So we wait in the dressing rooms?” Kiernan asks. “Do they lock?”

“They’re not exactly dressing rooms. Tate called them . . . Juvapods? And I don’t know if they lock, but I viewed ahead and we’ll be fine. A cleaning crew—automated, not human—comes through in about an hour. But they don’t clean inside the pods. Tate said they’re self-maintaining.”

“So if they have robotic cleaning crews, why not robotic servers?”

It’s a good question, and one I asked Tate earlier.

“Tate says it’s a class thing, and it’s apparently not something new to this timeline. It was the tradition here at the club since the beginning, over a hundred years ago. Anyone can be waited on by robots, and there are also robots with AI who can serve as companions, or escorts, or whatever you want to call them. But some people prefer to boss real live humans around. And from what Tate’s seen, jobs are scarce throughout the East Coast—or EC, as they call it now. It’s one big economic region, not separate states. There are plenty of people who’ll take whatever work they can find, so they’re willing to put up with a lot of crap from the patrons.”

He huffs and glances around the room. “I guess it’s not as much fun to degrade a machine.”

“Yeah.” We’re now in front of the door at the end of the row—a
Juvapod Delux,
based on the label. I set an observation point directly in front of it, and Kiernan does the same so we can keep watch, just in case. And that way, I’ll see when Tate is coming, too—he said around nine, but that line still isn’t moving. And there’s no guarantee he’ll get in. Once Tate picks me up, Kiernan will find a moment when he can step out unobserved and head to one of the dining halls to see what information he can uncover.

I touch the door to my pod, and it slides upward to reveal an oval-shaped interior about the size of a broom closet. It reminds me of a sarcophagus, except it’s padded with a thick layer of gelatinous-looking goop. The back wall is formed into a chair and there are two shelflike nooks carved into the walls. A slight warmth radiates outward. The walls look blue, although I think that’s the reflection from our CHRONOS keys. Only the floor looks normal . . . well, if you consider the sand-stuff under our feet normal.

“And you’re sure no one uses these?” Kiernan reaches a tentative finger toward the wall, but I pull his hand back.

“Don’t touch the inside. Tate said that’s how you activate the pod, and it’s connected to the computer system. And no, these are empty until later in the day. People take the newer models first.”

“Not sure I’d want to touch them anyway.” Kiernan drags the toe of his shoe through the faux sand beneath our feet. “It looks a bit like this crud, just wet and shiny. Like a big green mouth . . . or stomach.”

The fact that he said green rather than blue confirms my guess that the walls are just reflecting the light from the CHRONOS key. And he’s kind of right about it looking like a mouth. That ramps up my anxiety about entering the thing by several levels.

I paste on a brave grin. “Into the belly of the beast, I guess. Be careful, okay?”

Kiernan grabs my arm, a worried expression in his eyes. “You be careful, too, Kate. I’m not entirely sure I . . . like . . . you walking around with everyone assuming you’re for hire. It sounds . . . risky.”

His voice is hesitant, as well it should be. I’m so close to saying I don’t really care what he
likes
. His attitude over the past few days is beyond baffling. I never know if I’m going to get the worried friend-who’d-like-to-be-more or the aggressively indifferent colleague. His mood swings are worse than Katherine’s.

But I bite my tongue.

“I’ll be with Tate. If anyone questions us, he’ll say I’m part of a . . . package request. From Campbell. And you’ve seen Tate. I don’t think anyone would dare approach me if he’s nearby.”

Kiernan looks like he’s going to say something else, but I push his hand off my arm. The door slides between us, and I flip the latch to secure it.

To be honest, I think my bigger challenge may be keeping Tate’s hands to himself. His relationship with Prudence was most definitely not platonic, and he wasn’t happy when I rebuffed some of his more fervent advances earlier. The multitude of stable points in the old couple’s bedroom—which used to be Tate’s bedroom—make a lot more sense now. Pru was watching him. Was she spying on him? Or maybe it’s just her version of having Tate’s picture on her phone?

And then Woodhull snatched her key with this set of stable points, severing her link to Tate and essentially ending whatever plans they were making to fix the mess she’d helped Saul create. Assuming that Prudence ever really planned to fix anything. Tate clearly believes she intended to restore a future that included CHRONOS, but would she have done that if it entirely erased the Cyrists? And where does this mystery kid he mentioned fit into the picture?

I sit cross-legged on the floor, being careful to avoid the sides, and jump forward a few hours to 9 a.m. No point sitting here in this hot box any longer than necessary. A quick check of the observation point outside my pod shows a number of people in various stages of undress swimming, “sunning,” and chatting with friends. The stable point outside shows Tate, waiting in the line that hasn’t budged. Maybe the alarm going off last night means tighter security?

And even though I try really hard to resist the urge, I check on Trey at the hotel, and Dad and Connor back at Katherine’s.

All still safe.

After fifteen minutes inside the Juvapod, the goop isn’t the only thing sweating. It’s wicked hot. No wonder Tate smelled like week-old gym clothes when he greeted me last night. I feel like I’m going to melt. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of my nose, tickling my nostril. I reach up to flick it away, but before I can, it triggers a sneeze.

And instantly, the pod springs to life. The walls glow a bright, sterile white that’s almost painful to the eyes. “Welcome, guest! I’m Alisa. Please survey the treatment menu while I pull your account information.” The voice has a bubbly, too-cheerful quality, like the actress who played Glinda in
Wicked
.

A holographic “Treatment Menu” pops up in front of me. Choices include
Vitamin Infusion, Skin Resurfacing, Stress Reduction, Weight Mitigation, Eye Correction, Hair Restoration, Hair Coloring,
and maybe a dozen others. A few seem to be trademarked, because I haven’t the slightest clue what the words mean. The ones that puzzle me most are
Aerobic Conditioning
and
Muscle Tone
. Does the goop just reach out and whip you into shape?

The chipper voice is back. “I’m sorry. I can’t locate your client record. Now scanning DNA for family membership.”

DNA?
I didn’t touch the walls. Other than the latch on the door, I haven’t touched anything. How did I manage to activate this thing, let alone give it DNA?

Oh
.

The drop of sweat.

The sneeze.

Damn, damn,
damn
.

The discovery that someone with DNA not in the system is in one of their Juvapods is bound to trigger an alarm of some sort, so I need to hide somewhere else until Tate arrives.

I search the menu for a cancel button. No luck—just the menu items and a line at the bottom,
Powered by ALISA
. So I shove upward on the door. It’s also lined with the goo, which actually isn’t wet to the touch, just warm and pliant like bread dough.

“The door must remain locked until treatment cycle is complete.”

I shove again.

“I
said
, door must remain locked until tre—” The voice halts abruptly, and then continues in a less annoyed tone, “Client DNA linked with a sixty-one percent probability to account Rand02. If this is correct, please state your name and disrobe for treatment.”

I freeze, and for a moment, I can’t even breathe. Tate said that this section of the complex is new. It didn’t exist in his time, so I don’t think Prudence could have had an account.

Then the voice says, “Please state your name to begin new client record.”

I’m pretty sure I’m screwed no matter what I do, and I need information. “Prudence K. Rand. Account information, please.”

“Welcome, Prudence! I am Alisa, and I will be your host today. Please disrobe for your treatment while I process the file.”

I wait a few seconds and then repeat, “Account information, please.”

“I’m processing that request.
Please
wait
.”

It may be my imagination, but I’d swear Alisa’s voice has taken on a decidedly snarky tone.

I wait silently, and when Alisa speaks again, her usual chirpy tone is back. “Account information Rand02. Active and in good standing.”

“Thank you, Alisa. Please list members included in account.”

A list pops up in place of the menu. “Account Rand02 has four primary members. Arturo Rand, Leamon Rand, Eryssa Rand, Saul Rand.”

Saul? If CHRONOS never existed, then Saul couldn’t either. But . . . his family could still exist. And maybe even someone named Saul? In fact, I’m pretty sure my grandfather would try to ensure that some version of himself not only continued but prospered in this brave new Cyrist-designed world.

“Account Rand02 also has nine affiliated members.” The voice proceeds to reel off names in rapid succession. Most of the guest names appear to be female. The last one is the name I just gave her,
Prudence K. Rand
.

I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. It’s not just that this could complicate matters. I suspect that it will, but leaving that aside, the fact that the system connected me to the Rand family at all is a blunt reminder that I inherited more than just the CHRONOS gene. I shake my head to clear it of the image of Saul standing near the altar at the Six Bridges chapel, blissfully surveying the rows of bodies before him.

“Please disrobe and select a treatment. Do you need assistance reading the menu?”

“No,” I say, matching her snide tone. “I can read.”

“Do you need assistance disrobing?”

“No! Account history, please.”

“I don’t understand. Please restate your request.”

I think for a moment and then just spit out exactly what I want to know. “Are other members of account Rand02 in the club today?”

“Yes.”

I wait, but apparently Alisa wasn’t programmed to be forthcoming, so I prod again. “
Locate
members of account Rand02.”

“Arturo Rand and Saul Rand are in the Redwing Dining Hall. Eryssa Rand has a treatment scheduled for sixteen hundred hours in Juvapod unit seven. Please disrobe and select a treatment. Other clients are waiting.”

Well, that’s a lie. Other clients may be waiting for the
Juvapod Ultra Mega Supreme
or whatever the spiffy newer model is called, but no one is waiting for this one. The observation point outside the pod is clear, except for a middle-aged man diving into the pool.

I wait until the diver hits the water and say, “Cancel treatment.”

The door slides up, and I step out. Once I’m in the observation point outside Kiernan’s pod, I wave and mouth the word
open
.

He does, and I’m surprised to see he’s bare-chested, holding the shirt and jacket in his hand. I guess his pod was as hot as mine.

“Sorry. Tate’s not here, so you need to stay put. My pod was triggered when I sneezed.”

Kiernan gives me an exasperated look.

“I couldn’t stop a sneeze, okay? Anyway, the system linked my DNA to an active account—one that includes a member named
Saul Rand
. It’s probably not the same person . . . not exactly. But I didn’t want you to be caught unaware. He and some other Rand, maybe his dad or grandfather, are in Redwing Dining Hall.”

“Do you know where that is?”

“No. That didn’t seem like a question to ask the Juvapod answer . . . person. Or bot, or whatever. Just avoid the room if you can. And close the door. Tate could be here any second.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Avoid it? I’m looking for it!”

“Why?”

“Because I’m guessing someone with the last name Rand will have a better idea than anyone as to where we’ll find those bloody keys!”

∞18∞

O
BJECTIVIST
C
LUB

W
ASHINGTON
, EC

October 15, 2308, 10:12 a.m.

The door to Kiernan’s pod glides shut, and I stare at it, more than a little stunned at my own stupidity.

Okay, in my defense, steering clear of anything related to Saul Rand is very logical from a self-preservation standpoint. But Kiernan is right. Following Saul, even this alternate version of Saul who—as far as we know—hasn’t killed anyone, seems more likely to lead us to the keys than blindly poking around the building in search of a CHRONOS field.

I take a step toward my pod, thinking it might be best to go back inside for a few minutes, even if it means another chat with Alisa. But Tate rounds the corner and motions for me to join him.

“Saul is here,” I say in a soft voice when I reach him. “Or at least someone with his name is here. In one of the dining halls. Did you know that?”

Tate shrugs. “Yeah. He’s a resident. One of the older Rands lives here, too. I haven’t seen either of them. Campbell calls him Pseudo-Saul. Doesn’t look or act like him. His family tree would be different, since the Culling probably wiped out so many people. He probably made provisions to preserve that line and for there to be someone here with his name. But over that many generations, there was bound to be some slippage. And this Saul didn’t get the specific genetic boosts from CHRONOS. He probably got a half-dozen black-market boosts, given how much his family is worth . . . but I guess those aren’t black market now. Anyway, you won’t recognize him.”

He looks at me and huffs out an annoyed breath. “But
he’ll
recognize
you
. Damn, I didn’t think about that.”

I start to ask why Saul would recognize me, but then I realize that’s a stupid question. The same reason the woman at Norumbega recognized me. The same reason half a dozen other people have recognized me. My face is plastered all over their religion.

“Did you have trouble getting in?” I ask.

“Not really. They’re more AR than usual because of last night’s breach, but the blue chip meant they waved me in without much scroot.”

“Great.” I smile, even though there are a few words in the mix I’d like to google or whatever they call it these days.

Tate leads me down a corridor similar to the one we were in last night. There’s another door at the end with a large red X, but we turn left before we reach it, onto a curved walkway surrounding a large atrium with trees, ponds, and seating areas scattered about. It’s very lush and tropical, but as I look closer, I think it’s the same sort of artificial environment as the recreation area. There are three or four dozen people in small clusters. A few seem to be playing a game, and others are watching something I can’t see. There’s a loud cheer, and the sole woman near the back reaches up to give the guy beside her a high-five.

“Stop gawking.” He takes hold of my elbow, steering me away. “We need to get to Campbell’s quarters quickly and avoid drawing attention.”

He waves his hand in front of something that looks like the Juvapods. The logo on the door is similar, except it reads
Transpod Ultra
.

The door swoops shut once we’re inside, and the Alisa voice greets us. “Tate Poulsen. On special request from account Cyrus01. Again.” Her voice is snide, almost angry. “I guess you expect me to take you to his wing?”

“Yes,” Tate replies in a weary voice. “And I don’t want any commentary from you about it this time.”

“Noted,” Alisa says. “But you’re disgusting, and I have every right to comment.”

“You
know
her?” I ask Tate.

Before Tate can answer, Alisa says, “Hello again, Prudence K. Rand. Will you be joining your family in Redwing Hall?”

Now it’s Tate’s turn to shoot me an incredulous look, and I hold up a hand to tell him to save it until we’re out of earshot of this Alisa thing . . . person . . . whatever. Although I’m starting to wonder now whether we’re ever out of her earshot. Is she present throughout the club, or only in these pod devices?

“No, Alisa. I’ll be joining Mr. Poulsen.”

“I’m sorry, Prudence.” She doesn’t sound sorry at all. “That would be a violation of OC policy. Unescorted females may not be transported to the quarters of male members outside their family. Once I deliver Tate Poulsen to level ten, I’ll take you to the dining hall, the main clubroom, the Rand family rooms, or back to the recreation area.”

“She remains with me,” Tate says. “At the request of Morgen Campbell.”

A short pause. “My log shows no such request.”

“It will, in about two minutes,” Tate says in a low tone, but Alisa keeps talking over him.

“But even so, it would still violate OC policy. Prudence K. Rand is an affiliate member, and as a guest on her family’s account, she shouldn’t even be sharing a Transpod with a companion, let alone accomp—”

“Silence!” Tate’s command is very close to a roar. Alisa stops talking, but she gives us a very audible how-dare-you sniff, and I can almost
feel
her listening, so I keep quiet.

Tate leans down and says, “Request that your record for today’s session be kept private.”

“Okay.” I repeat the request in a louder voice.

“Request noted.”

Hmph.
Noted.
I glance over at Tate and can see he doesn’t find that any more reassuring than I do.

A few seconds later, the pod door slides upward, and we both step out onto a translucent platform. I make the mistake of glancing down and instantly regret it. Each floor below us is visible beneath my feet, and for once, I’m glad Tate’s hand is on my arm.

“Close!” The pod door slides down after Tate speaks, and the entire unit drops back into the tube, which seals behind it.

“Can she still hear us?” I ask.

“No. Only in the pods.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. People
live
here, Pru.” He looks a little disgusted, as though I’ve asked why someone would use a toilet instead of just peeing in the hallways.

We turn right, and as we walk along the curved corridor, I keep my eyes trained on the walls and on the single strip of carpet that runs along the middle of the floor. Each time they stray toward those clear edges and I see the floors beneath my feet, I feel a little dizzy. Heights don’t usually bother me much, but you can see the level below us, and the level below that, each one a little less clearly than the layer above. It reminds me of this M. C. Escher poster that Dad’s girlfriend, Sara, has in her apartment.

“Why did the Alisa recognize you in the first place?”

“I sneezed. It activated the pod, and the DNA linked me to the Rand account. What does Alisa stand for?”

“No clue. Everyone in the club calls it
the
Alisa, so maybe it’s an acronym, but I think it’s just a name. Alisa was the name of Campbell’s daughter. I only met her once, but from what he’s told me, that’s her voice you’re hearing. Her personality, too, to some extent.”

“How—” I stop myself before I can launch into the barrage of questions his statement just raised.

You’re supposed to be Pru, remember?
Maybe downloading someone’s consciousness into a computer system is the norm in 2308, whether it’s in this timeline or some other.

But there’s also another issue . . .

“Wait.”

Tate stops and turns back to look at me.

“How can that be? If Campbell doesn’t exist, then his daughter never existed, so how does she end up as . . .” I nearly say the twenty-fourth-century version of Siri, but he wouldn’t get it and Pru probably wouldn’t either. “How does Alisa’s voice end up in the system if she never existed?”

“Campbell wondered that, too. At first he thought it was really her. That she was here somewhere, protected by a key. Said he rode up and down the lift talking to her, asking questions. But he’s convinced it’s an AI of some sort, with her voice and speech mannerisms grafted on top.”

“But again, if she never existed . . .”

“Saul knew Alisa. I think he knew her
really
well. He was a major horndog between the time he broke up with Esther and moved in with Katherine. After, too, when he could get away with it. Campbell figures he took a recording of her voice back with him. Having his people put Alisa’s voice in the system when they built this club is just another of Saul’s little gotchas, another way to remind Campbell he won. Didn’t you hear her in the Transpod? The account that provides Campbell’s room and board is in the dog’s name. Almost every time we were at the club, Saul would pat old Cyrus on the head as he left and snark about him being smarter than his master. Now Campbell is symbolically dependent on his pet. It doesn’t seem to bother him, but it’s another echo of Saul saying he won.”

“Not only won, but erased someone Campbell loved in the process.”

“Eh . . . I guess. They didn’t like each other, but she was still his kid, so . . .”

I can’t help but think of Connor’s kids, two more people who were erased by Saul, even though they weren’t purposefully targeted. We’re now so far from the timeline where they existed that I don’t think Connor holds out much hope for getting them back. After several years, Connor seems to be at the point where it doesn’t eat at him constantly, aside from fueling his determination to stop Saul, but it’s still a source of pain. And could he have reached even that level of healing if every time he turned on his computer he was confronted with the virtual ghost of Andi or Chris?

“Come on,” Tate says, tugging my arm. “We need to get moving. I just hope Campbell’s coherent enough for us to get any info he has and get out. You being tagged as a Rand is . . . a complication. They’re supposed to believe you’re a companion brought in at Campbell’s request. Instead, the minute one of the Rands steps into a pod, they’ll get the whole story from the Alisa.”

We cross an intersecting corridor and enter a wide hallway. There’s a door at the far end and another one about halfway down. The walls are a cool white, but every few yards, they’re separated by a bright blue strip of light. The effect is similar to the tubes along the walls in Katherine’s library, so I’m pretty sure it’s from a CHRONOS key.

I pull Tate to a stop just to the left of one of the lights. “There’s a key nearby. The lights are blu—”

My heart stops. Pru sees the key as green. I fake a cough to give myself a second to think how to rephrase. “The lights are blurry, but they’re the same shade of green.”

“These?” Tate looks at the light strips.

“Yes. We should check that smaller door. I can’t tell for certain, but it looks like there’s a pinpoint of light coming through, there at the bottom corner.”

He crouches down to look at the door and then back up at me. His expression is . . . envious? “See? That’s what I mean. The lights look pale yellow to me, just like half the lights you see in this building. Or most other buildings. Whoever set my parameters—”

Tate stands suddenly and grabs my chin, turning the right side of my face toward him. His fingers trace the scar along my jawline. “What’s this?”

I applied a pretty thick coat of makeup, but given that it’s been at least eight hours, and that part of the time was spent sweating like a pig in the stupid Juvapod, I’m guessing it’s rubbed away.

“It’s nothing really. An accident a while back.”

The look on his face tells me he’s not buying it. I tense up, ready to run or fight, certain my cover is blown. Unfortunately, I doubt that either fight or flight will be successful against this guy.

“That son of a bitch!” His fist connects with the light strip, which apparently isn’t made of the squishy stuff, because it doesn’t bend around his knuckles. It doesn’t crack, either, and Tate gives his hand an annoyed shake as he pulls it back. “I told you that if he hurt you again, you should kill him, Pru. I should never have listened to Campbell. If you’d stayed here, Saul couldn’t have touched you. He’d have been stuck there in the Dark Ages, stranded.”

I have a hard time imagining 2024 as the Dark Ages, but he’s genuinely angry, and again I see the resemblance to Simon—slight, but definitely there. Tate reaches out and crushes me to his chest, holding me a bit too tight for comfort.

“Let’s just go,” he says finally. “We’ll find out what we can from Campbell and grab whatever is inside that room on our way out. I want to get this done and then get the hell out.”

When we reach the end of the hallway, Tate presses his hand to the wall, and the larger door slides upward. No one is on the other side, but I hear a few feeble barks from somewhere within the apartment.

“Campbell?” Tate says as we step inside. It’s a large room, with a single window that wraps around three sides. There are no curtains—no roof, for that matter—and I get the sense that what I’m seeing above me is the real sky and not the facsimile in the recreation area below.

The view from the windows is depressing, overlooking the ruined buildings we ran past last night. Off in the distance, I see a few familiar landmarks. The Washington Monument is still there, and closer in, the White House. Contrary to Kiernan’s statement about DC in the previous timeline, most of the area around us appears to be dry land, although there are more pockets of water than I remember seeing when Trey and I took in the view from the rooftop of the hotel.

I’m still not sure precisely where this club is located, but the landmarks help orient me a bit. I think we’re somewhere between Metro Center and McPherson Square. Of course, those stops—the entire Metro—didn’t exist in Katherine’s future. I don’t know if they exist here or not, but it confirms my earlier suspicions that the building is near to where CHRONOS headquarters would have been, based both on Katherine’s memory and the information in Delia and Abel’s Future-Wiki.

As for the apartment itself, it brings to mind the room I viewed in the key when I saw Campbell and the winged girl. The dark paneling on the inner wall to my left and the heavy antique (or at least antique-looking) furniture and carpet seem strangely out of place next to the panoramic, if not particularly pleasant, view on my right.