Stolen Time Page 15

  “Hold on!” Ash shouted. He increased airspeed by 135 knots and the ship jerked forward. Every light inside the cockpit flashed on, filling the small, dark room with greens and reds. Ash thought he heard someone scream—

  And then the prememory crashed over him, and everything went dark.

  21

  Dorothy

  Dorothy’s eyes fluttered closed, images flickering beneath her lids:

  She was walking down a dark tunnel, its brick walls coated with dirt and plaster. She ran her fingertips along the bricks and they came away damp.

  The image changed. She didn’t remember walking, but suddenly she was standing in another corridor, looking at a door made of dull metal, the word RESTRICTED written across it in big, block letters. The handle was a black latch. She tried it, but it was locked.

  She looked down and saw a keyboard set into the metal just below the door latch. She lowered her fingers to the keys—

  And then the hallway was gone and she was kneeling on the floor beneath a table, the light around her flashing. Roman was beside her, his face so close that she saw the muscle in his jaw twitch as he said, “You shouldn’t trust them. The great Chronology Protection Agency will never deserve you.”

  Dorothy felt her lips part. “Why—”

  Emergency lights blinked on, knocking Roman’s face from Dorothy’s head and bathing the ship in an eerie red glow.

  She lifted one hand, wincing as her fingertips brushed a tender spot below her ear. Her head ached, even though she couldn’t remember hitting it on anything, and her eyesight was all . . . fuzzy. She felt like she was looking at the world through opaque glass.

  What was all that?

  The images had felt familiar, like memories, only they couldn’t have been. She’d never been that close to Roman, had never seen any of those places before.

  But they weren’t dreams, either. They’d felt too real to be dreams.

  Dorothy blinked, and Ash’s face swam into view. He was doubled over, his skin glistening with sweat, eyes barely open.

  Nerves prickled up the back of her neck. She fumbled with her seat belt, the dream images forgotten. “Ash?”

  Zora twisted in her seat, restraints bunched up around her shoulders. “He’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?” Dorothy asked. She couldn’t get her seat belt free. The contraption felt impossibly complicated between her fingers. “He looks—”

  “Check the others. Can you reach them?” Zora was pointing at something on the floor now, but her finger became two fingers . . . and then three . . .

  Dorothy blinked, fighting back the dizziness. Maybe she had hit her head. When she opened her eyes, Zora was only pointing with one finger, again. Dorothy followed it to the floor, where Willis and Chandra lay in a heap, debris strewn around them. They weren’t moving. It looked . . .

  Dorothy felt herself go bone still. It looked like they were dead.

  “Check their vitals,” Zora was saying. Her voice was steady. “See if they have a pulse. Do you know how to find a pulse?”

  Dorothy nodded. She was staring at Chandra’s hand, a sick feeling rising in her throat.

  She’d never thought of herself as sheltered before, but she did now. She and her mother had no other family, and they’d never stayed anywhere long enough to make friends, so Dorothy’s experience of death had always been limited. She’d never had to say goodbye to a beloved grandmother, or wonder why her pet bunny hadn’t woken up.

  It was a gift, sort of. If she never really loved anything, nothing she loved could ever die.

  Dorothy didn’t love any of these people, but she didn’t hate them, either. Just a few minutes ago they’d all been talking and joking. Playing a game.

  Now, Chandra’s fingernails were broken to the quick, and there was a deep scratch along her palm. And—oh God—she didn’t appear to be breathing.

  Dorothy reached for Chandra’s wrist, her fingers trembling. Please don’t be dead, she thought.

  Chandra’s fingers twitched, and Dorothy jerked her hand back again, relief practically knocking her over.

  “Are you okay?” she choked out.

  Chandra groaned and sat up. She cradled one arm to her chest, her face contorting in pain. “I think I broke something.”

  “Willis?” Zora asked.

  Dorothy shifted her attention to the giant unconscious man spread out before her. Willis still hadn’t opened his eyes, but his chest was rising and falling, steadily. Dorothy pressed two fingers to his neck. . . .

  Relief washed over her like cold water. “His heart’s still beating.”

  Zora lowered her head to her hands, exhaling heavily. “Thank God,” she murmured, her calm exterior cracking, just for a moment.

  “I can revive him with the ammonia inhalants in my bag,” Chandra said. She hesitated, glancing at the mess around her. “If I can find my bag.”

  Dorothy looked past her, at Ash. He was still doubled over, his face tight with pain, though he seemed to be managing to keep the ship airborne. Some instinct sprang up in her, to make sure he was okay, maybe, or to try to help him. She’d always hated pain, both experiencing it herself and watching it rip through others. Her mother used to tell her this was a weakness.

  Pain can be useful, she’d say—another one of her ludicrous rules—but Dorothy had never listened. Her mother might have been smarter than her in many ways, but this was not one of them. Pain was always just pain.

  She started to reach for Ash’s arm, then thought of how he’d scolded her for having the nerve to touch him before and dropped her hand to the back of his chair, instead.

  Rat, she thought. And he was a rat, but that didn’t mean she wanted him to die.

  She saw black leather nestled beneath the seat just in front of her and, recognizing Chandra’s doctor’s bag, pulled it loose with a tug.

  “Thank you.” Chandra unzipped the bag, and a mess of gauze, bandages, and bottles filled with brightly colored liquids tumbled out and began rolling around the ship. She ignored them and dug through the remaining objects in the bag, eventually producing a small vial of white powder.

  “Here we go,” she muttered, unscrewing the lid. She leaned forward and placed the inhalant under Willis’s nose.

  The giant twitched. His eyelids flickered open. He mumbled something that could’ve been “You’re hurt” and frowned at the arm Chandra was clutching to her chest.

  “How’s your head?” Chandra asked. One-handed, she pulled a tiny, handheld light out of her overstuffed bag and flashed it in Willis’s eyes. “Nausea? Dizziness?”

  “I’m fine.” Willis batted at the light like it was an insect, trying to sit up. “Why am I on the ground?”

  “Because you are very large, and there’s this thing called gravity.” Chandra held his shoulders down. “Where do you think you’re going? Lie down, you big oaf. Don’t make me—”

  The ship jerked and sputtered, reminding Dorothy of a dying animal.

  She snatched at one of the restraints falling over the side of her seat, gripping so tightly her fingers cramped. She couldn’t catch her breath.

  She wasn’t usually so easily frightened. Even climbing on the airplane had been an easy choice, though she’d heard stories of airplanes plummeting right out of the sky, killing everyone on board. It wasn’t that she didn’t fear for her life, it’s just that she had a sort of block where her own safety was concerned. She could easily visualize terrible things happening. Just never to her.

  But this. She was starting to realize that this might’ve been a mistake. Would it all be worth it? To see another period in time? She’d been so distracted by the idea that she hadn’t bothered thinking of the possible consequences.

  Death, for instance. And maiming. And falling from very high in the sky . . .

  She covered her mouth with one hand, breathing hard.

  22

  Ash

  Ash was standing in a small boat, easing his weight from leg to leg to keep his ba
lance. Black water lapped at the sides, sending the boat rocking, but Ash moved, easily, with the motion. He’d grown used to the water over the last two years.

  Trees seemed to glow in the darkness around him. Ghost trees. Dead trees. Water pressed against their white trunks, moving with the wind.

  Ash counted ripples to pass the time while he waited. Seven. Twelve. Twenty-three. He lost track and was about to start again when her light appeared in the distant black. It was small, like the single headlight of a motorcycle, followed by the rumbling sound of an engine. He stood straighter. Part of him hadn’t expected her to come. But of course she would. She always did.

  Leave now, he told himself. There was still time. He felt sure that she wouldn’t come after him if he left before she got there. He knew how this night would end if he stayed. He’d seen this exact moment a dozen times. A hundred, if he counted dreams. But he stayed still, his hand clenching and unclenching at his side.

  He wanted to see her, even knowing what it meant. He had to see her one last time.

  The boat drew closer. She was hidden by the darkness of the night. Ash wouldn’t have known someone was standing there if it hadn’t been for her hair, the long, white strands blowing loose from her coat, dancing in the darkness.

  She pulled up next to him and cut the engine.

  “I didn’t think you’d come.” Her voice was lower than he’d expected, practically a purr. She reached up, pushed those white strands of hair back under her hood with a flick of her hand.

  Ash swallowed. He didn’t see the knife, but he knew she had it. “It doesn’t have to end like this.”

  “Of course it does.” Her hand disappeared inside her coat. She leaned forward. “Ash—”

  “Ash!”

  The voice broke the prememory into a dozen flitting images. Ash straightened, gasping for air like a man drowning. He blinked slowly. The prememory was stronger than it had ever been before. He couldn’t remember where he was, didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing.

  White hair dancing in the darkness . . .

  . . . It doesn’t have to end like this.

  “Wake up!” Zora was clutching his arm, shaking him. He tried to move, but his limbs felt weighted down, like he was sinking through cold water. He could still smell the salty ocean air, the scent of fish rolling in with the fog, the spice-and-flowers scent of the girl’s white hair.

  So real. It had been so, so real.

  Wind howled against the Star’s walls, making them appear to bulge inward. Ash thought he heard someone scream, but the sound might have come from the visions still flashing through his head.

  White hair and black water and dead trees . . .

  He held the yoke steady as the entire ship began to shake. The lights went dark.

  “Come on, Star,” he murmured. He aimed the Star’s nose at the tunnel walls and pulled back on the yoke, accelerating. The air around the ship grew wet and still. His headlights flashed back on, cutting through dark water.

  A moment later, the Second Star bobbed to the surface, black night spread out around her.

  They were here.

  LOG ENTRY—DECEMBER 29, 2074

  18:38 HOURS

  THE DARK STAR

  I’m writing this from the passenger seat of the newly built Dark Star.

  A dark star is a star heated by the annihilation of dark matter particles. It’s also an English psychedelic rock band, and a 1974 film by John Carpenter.

  I thought it was a fitting name for the most advanced time machine the world has ever seen.

  That’s right. I’ve built a second time machine.

  The Second Star can hold a crew of five, but it’s a tight fit. There’s also the problem of the external control panel. You see, when I was first building my time machine, my primary concern was incorporating the exotic matter into the design of the vessel without upsetting the underlying architecture.

  To put it plainly, I stuck the control panel on the outside of the ship, because it was easier that way. But, now, it poses a problem. You can’t tweak the EM midflight, which caused some safety concerns. Both WCAAT and NASA thought we needed something more advanced, and I have to agree that they’re right. And, thus, the Dark Star was born. Not only does the new time machine seat eight, with legroom to spare, but it has an internal control panel, which makes midflight repairs much safer and easier.

  First mission: pick up our new pilot!

  Natasha’s been teaching me all about the “golden age of aviation,” which is this period of time between the 1920s and the 1930s, when Americans were absolutely obsessed with flying. I thought that sounded promising, but Natasha seems to think we’ll find a more talented pilot by looking a few years later—at World War II fighter pilots.

  I made a joke that we should just recruit Amelia Earhart and call it a day, but Natasha pointed out that Amelia is a bit old for our purposes. I hadn’t thought about this before, but she’s right. This isn’t just one mission we’re talking about. If things go according to plan, this will be a series of missions extending for years and years into the future—maybe even longer, if you take into account the fact that we’ll be traveling back in time, possibly staying for quite a while before returning to our present.

  In other words, we need to recruit them young.

  We did some research. On September 27, 1942, the minimum enlistment age for the war was lowered to sixteen, so long as there was parental consent. And, of course, a bunch of kids lied about their ages and joined up when they were even younger. Natasha says the youngest was some twelve-year-old named Calvin Graham. Twelve years old! And fighting in a war! Zora’s almost fifteen, and I won’t even let her date.

  I won’t bore you with the rest of our research. The upshot is that we found a sixteen-year-old pilot from Bryce, Nebraska. His name is Jonathan Asher Jr. He lied about his age to get into the civilian pilot training program (known colloquially as flight academy, or flight camp), graduated early, and proceeded directly to pilot training. He was a rising star in the navy, right up until he went AWOL before a mission for no apparent reason.

  I don’t think this was a coincidence.

  Asher is young, talented, and the fact that he went missing means we won’t muck up history too much by . . . well, removing him from it.

  We go back for him first thing in the new year.

  There’s another thing I want to note before signing off for today. Something odd has happened the last few times I went back in time. I don’t know how to describe it, other than “waking dream.” I’ll be flying the Second Star through the anil when a vision comes to me, kind of flickering through the back of my mind. It has the feel of a memory, only it’s not my memory. In fact, I’ve never seen it before.

  The vision is this: our city, entirely underwater. The tops of skyscrapers stick out of a sea of black. Waves lap against the sides of buildings. All the trees have turned white.

  Then, all at once, I’m overcome with a feeling of intense, overwhelming sadness. Last time, it got so bad that I couldn’t keep hold of the yoke. Roman had to steer the Star the rest of the way home while I took deep breaths and tried not to sob.

  I don’t know what to make of it.

  Is it an omen? A dream? A trick of the time tunnel?

  I haven’t told Natasha yet. I want to know more about this vision before upsetting her with it.

  Whatever it is, it scared me.

  23

  Dorothy

  MARCH 17, 1980, FORT HUNTER COMPLEX

  It felt like another hundred years before the time machine settled on solid ground and the engine cut. The sudden stillness made Dorothy all the more aware of how the motor had trembled through her, shaking her to her bones.

  Stupid, she thought. There was no reason to be afraid. But she slipped her hands beneath her legs so no one else would see that they were shaking.

  “Zora, I need you under the hood.” Ash was still flipping switches and twisting levers, even though they were on the grou
nd. He looked better, though a thin film of sweat still clung to his forehead.

  “On it,” Zora said. She pulled a pair of goggles from her jacket pocket and slipped them over her braids, throwing her door open.

  “I want a full report on how the EM is doing,” Ash said, and Zora saluted, slamming the door shut behind her. Ash turned to Chandra. “How’s the arm?”

  Chandra was pawing around inside her bag again, her injured arm clutched to her chest like a broken wing. “It’ll be fine once I find my sling . . .”

  A small vial fell from Chandra’s bag and rolled across the ship’s floor, stopping at Dorothy’s feet. She reached out automatically to pick it up. Ipecac.

  “Aha!” Chandra shouted, pulling a bundle of white and blue cloth from her bag. Dorothy watched as she expertly fastened it around her broken arm. “See? Good as new.”

  “You sure about that?” Ash frowned. “You’re no good to me if you can’t patch up my crew.”

  “Nice to know you care,” Chandra said. “But I can work one-handed.”

  “Good.” Ash was nodding, oblivious to the sarcasm in Chandra’s voice. “Willis, blueprints?”

  “Pardon me, Chandie.” Willis reached around Chandra and tugged the strange metal object out from beneath her medical bag. “We’re offline,” he said, tapping the object’s brightly lit surface with one finger. “Definitely preinternet.”

  Ash was nodding. “The storm was bad, but I could tell from the clouds in the anil where we exited that we hit our date. March 17, 1980. Only—”

  The door slammed open, cutting him off. Zora climbed back into the ship, her face pink from the wind.

  “Tell me you have good news,” Ash said.

  “Engine’s cooked,” she said, collapsing into her seat. “Your boat needs a nice long nap.”

  “EM?”

  “Shot.” Zora pinched her nose between two fingers. “My father better be here, because we’ll need the EM from his ship to get back home. I don’t think the Second Star will survive another trip through the anil in the state it’s in now.”