19. May 25, 2202 Boston, Massachusetts
The waiting room has no windows.
No clock hangs from the obnoxiously bright yellow walls—probably painted a hue called “Joyful” or “Sunshine” or both—that have already started a throbbing at Oliver’s temples. He pulls his thick, tortoiseshell-framed glasses from his face and rubs his eyes. It doesn’t help.
It reminds him of the waiting room at Theo’s hospital.
Not in the way it tries too hard to be cheerful—the room at the hospital accepted its depressing reality—but in the way everything is slightly off, the way time doesn’t exist. The way everyone stares at him but nobody looks at him.
It’s just like the night his parents died.
He leans forward in the too-soft chair, his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on his worn sneakers.
He rubs his thumb absently across the tender spot on the back of his hand.
He can feel the weight of their gazes—the receptionist, the other patients.
No, not patients, not here. He glances around, tries to catch the eye of the gray-haired woman in the corner or the elderly man sitting across from him or any of the others.
They quickly look away—to their feet, to the television, to their phones—anywhere but at him. He isn’t supposed to be here.
He wants them to be right. The paper in his pocket says otherwise.
The door to the waiting room slides open with a quiet swish. A petite woman with brown skin and black hair pulled into a sleek bun steps through. “Rhodes?” She doesn’t look up from her tablet screen.
Oliver rises from his seat, and everyone in the waiting room pretends not to watch him go.
The young woman pushes a pair of lime-green reading glasses onto her head and gives him a practiced smile. “Follow me.”
She leads him down a carpeted hallway lined with identical plain-faced wooden doors.
He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his canvas jacket, and his fingertips find the familiar edge of a coin.
He has carried the relic since he was a child—since the day he found the quarter—helping his father dig a bed for his mother’s roses.
He told Oliver it was a treasure from the past, and Oliver believed him, even if it was old and worn and obsolete.
Because it was a glimpse into history. Because his father believed it, too.
The woman gestures to a room on the right and Oliver steps inside. She closes the door and sits behind a dark, polished desk that is too big for the small room. Oliver takes a seat across from her.
“What can I help you with today, Mr. Rhodes?”
He reaches inside his jacket and pulls a folded paper from his pocket. He slides it across the desk. “I think there’s been a mistake.”
The woman doesn’t take the page, doesn’t even glance at it. “There’s no mistake.”
“You didn’t even look at it.”
“We have looked at it,” the woman says. “The agency takes allegations like this very seriously. The matter was thoroughly investigated the first time it was brought to Aevum’s attention.”
Oliver’s guts twist. “What?”
The woman puts her glasses on and reads from her tablet. “Ten years ago, a Theodore Rhodes filed a formal complaint. He claimed Aevum made an error in the findings they reported to him. It was reviewed and deemed meritless.”
Oliver’s shoulders slump. His brother told him as much. He just refused to believe him. But if it’s true…
“Listen, Ms.—”
“Call me Lucy.”
“Lucy. Isn’t there anything you can do?”
She gives him a pitying smile, then swivels her chair to an acrylic display of pamphlets behind her desk.
She pulls out a glossy brochure and hands it to him.
Oliver’s gaze snags on the advertisement’s message.
The font is larger, the lettering bolder; a deep crimson red instead of utilitarian black.
But it’s the same question the letter taunted him with, the world’s most shameless postscript: Need More Time?
Visit Aevum, the #1 Trans-Temporal Travel Agency, Today!
Oliver’s heart thuds against his ribs. “Time travel?”
Lucy unfolds the brochure. “An excursion lasts up to twelve hours, but in your present, only thirty seconds will pass. Two excursions get you an extra day, fourteen excursions get you an extra week. You get the idea.”
He does. “And how much does that cost?”
“We offer an exclusive service to an exclusive clientele.” She turns her tablet so Oliver can see her screen. “But in your case, I wouldn’t worry about it. You have a fully funded account with us.”
“I’ve never even been—”
Theo.
Oliver sinks back into the plush armchair. He doesn’t want to know the price his brother has put on his betrayal. He’s not sure it can ever be high enough. He shakes his head. Guilt sure is a hell of a motivator.
Lucy rises to her feet. “Let’s take a tour of the facility, shall we?”
Oliver follows her out of her office. She fills the awkward silence between them with small talk. “Did you grow up in Boston?”
If she had bothered to read his letter, she would know the answer. It was all there, his entire life in three paragraphs. “Winchester.”
“How lovely.”
Oliver gets the feeling she would say the same thing if he said he lived at the bottom of the harbor.
They turn a corner. “And what is it you do, Mr. Rhodes?”
His stomach sinks. “I graduated on Friday, so you know…” He is in limbo, caught between a life that has ended and one that hasn’t yet begun. Lucy congratulates him anyway.
They reach a set of brushed-steel doors. “When you arrive at Aevum, you’ll check in at reception, then I’ll escort you here, to the travel stations,” Lucy explains. She places her palm on a rectangular scanner, and the doors slide open with a hiss. She motions Oliver inside.
“What did you say you studied?” she asks.
Oliver didn’t say. Now, he tells her: “History.” Technically, his degree is in history and museum studies, but the throbbing at his temples hasn’t improved since he left the waiting room, and he isn’t in the mood to field any more questions than necessary from Lucy.
Her eyes light up. “Oh, I bet you’ll come up with some fantastic excursions.”
He smiles politely. The idea of time travel never crossed his mind until Theo gave him the letter, and he hadn’t seriously considered it until ten minutes ago.
Lucy’s high-heeled footfall echoes off the polished concrete floor as they cross the windowless room, closer to an airplane hangar than the bright white science lab depicted in Aevum’s pamphlets.
She claims an empty travel system in the corner, a cylindrical chamber made of thermally shielded titanium and state-of-the-art fused silica glass, according to her pitch.
She sits at the desk in front of it and the display activates.
Oliver takes the seat across from her. A contract appears on the thin glass panel between them.
“First, the ground rules,” Lucy says as the tiny print scrolls slowly past. “Should you choose Aevum for your time travel needs, one of our trained medical professionals will inject you with our proprietary recall chip before your first excursion. No chip, no travel. Understand?”
“Yes,” Oliver says, though he’s not entirely sure he does.
“Good. That’s the most important piece out of the way.
” She continues: “The chip links you to this location in your present time. When your contract with Aevum is complete, the chip will be removed by a member of our medical team. You may request removal at any time, but such a request will terminate the rest of your contract with us. Any attempt to remove the chip yourself prior to the end of your contract will result in immediate recall and/or immediate ban from time travel at Aevum or any other agency that is currently operating or may operate in the future.” Lucy glances at him to make sure he is following. Oliver nods.
“The chip will automatically recall you here after twelve hours have passed on your excursion. Upon recall, thirty seconds of your present timeline will have been lost to you. Aevum offers no compensation for any time lost in your present timeline.”
“Can I go for longer?” Oliver asks. He will take as much time as he can get, even if it is only an extra hour.
“I’m afraid not,” Lucy says. “Aevum has found that a twelve-hour travel window grants clients a five-star experience. We want travelers to be excited to try another adventure, not return to the lab cranky and exhausted.”
In other words, she wants to keep him coming back for more.
“There are also the logistics. Our clients don’t pay to sleep through six to eight hours of an excursion. It’s much better value to return to your present for all your basic needs.”
Oliver doesn’t care about exhaustion or good value or sense. He can’t be the only one looking to escape his present for as long as possible. “No exceptions?”
Lucy gives him a tight smile. “No exceptions.”
He sags back into his chair.
Lucy goes on: “You may recall at will before twelve hours have passed; however, you will be charged for the full excursion. The implant will recall you automatically in the case of an emergency; however, you will be charged for the full excursion.”
“An emergency?” Oliver asks.
“Mostly they fall into two categories. The first is a medical emergency. The recall chip monitors your vitals. If it senses you have come to any bodily harm—if you suffer a moderate to severe injury, fall ill, or otherwise require medical attention—you will be recalled.”
“And the second?”
“An intervention, in case you find yourself somewhere you shouldn’t be. Don’t even think about boarding the Titanic, Mr. Rhodes.”
“Because I could die?” Oliver asks.
Lucy sighs. “Because it’s a lot of paperwork.”
She returns to the contract. “You may request an excursion to any time or place in the past. All date and time coordinates must be submitted for approval a minimum of five business days before an excursion can be scheduled and must be submitted using the proper electronic form. Once an excursion has been approved and scheduled, no part of it may be changed. Aevum reserves the right to deny any visit for any reason, including but not limited to danger to the client—meaning you.”
“Danger?” Oliver says. “Am I going to accidentally erase myself from existence?”
“This isn’t science fiction, Mr. Rhodes.
The past is inevitable. If Aevum sends you on an excursion, you must have always been on that excursion, always been at that point in time.
You are there because you have always been there.
Events happen a certain way because they have always happened that way. ”
“What about the future?” Oliver asks. “Is that inevitable?”
Lucy purses her lips. “We leave the future to the professionals.”
It’s probably for the best. Oliver’s not sure he wants to know any more about what the future holds.
Lucy rattles on. “You cannot visit a time more than once. You cannot visit a place you have already been or where you are known to exist. You cannot visit anywhere out of chronological order.
“Downtime between excursions is based on the client’s—your—health and may vary at Aevum’s discretion.
The minimum time off between excursions is forty-eight consecutive present-time hours.
If the trans-temporal chamber deems you unfit for travel, it will not send you on your excursion; however, you will be charged the full amount.
“And lastly, Aevum shall not be held responsible for any distress, illness, injury, dismemberment, or death that occurs during or due to an excursion,” Lucy finishes. A signature box glows green on the contract. “Questions?”
“What, nothing about stepping on butterflies?” Oliver jokes.
“Prohibited”—she swipes to a different screen—“and covered in the fine print.”
“Very fine print,” Oliver says as lines of smaller text scroll past, faster than he can read.
“It’s protecting the butterflies, not the timeline.
It’s turned into the new African lion hunt.
Apparently, nothing asserts your dominance like going back in time and squishing a monarch.
” Lucy shakes her head, bewildered by the idea.
The contract displays the glowing signature box again. “Anything else?”
Oliver stares at the blank line. Theo gave him this. Theo, whom he owes too much to ever repay. And what did Oliver call it yesterday?
Self-sacrificing bullshit.
His face burns at the memory of his brother in that moment. How his eyes changed when Oliver’s words landed. How he was glad he hurt Theo, too.
Oliver doesn’t want to want Theo’s gift. He hates that he does. Hates that Theo knew—that Theo always knows—exactly what to do for him. But his pride won’t get him more time. Only this will.
He signs his name.
“Excellent,” Lucy says. “I’ll call a nurse in to take your baseline vitals and inject your recall chip. Then we can get you scheduled for your first excursion. When and where would you like to go?” She smiles at him—awkward, forced—waiting for his answer.
“I’m not sure.” The look in her eyes reminds him of Theo. He hates it.
Lucy opens the bottom drawer of the desk and pulls out a pocket-size notebook, bound in dark brown leather and embossed with the Aevum company logo: a compass combined with a clock.
“Take this.” She lays the notebook on the desk between them.
“It’s a travel log. Lots of our clients use one to prioritize where and when they want to go, in case—”
She stops herself, but Oliver can guess what she was about to say. He picks up the journal and thumbs through the blank dotted pages.
“How do I choose?” The task is daunting. He could go anywhere. Any when.
She gives him a patronizing smile. “Why did you walk into Aevum today, Mr. Rhodes?”
Because yesterday morning, Theo delivered a bombshell, and Aevum’s logo was on the letterhead. Because he isn’t angry that his brother betrayed his trust—betrayed him. He is angry that he didn’t do it sooner. Because—
“I want more time.”
“Everyone says that.” Lucy’s brown eyes meet his. “The question you need to ask yourself now is why?”