Having traveled as much as I have, it’s easy to imagine the things someone could do — assassinating world leaders before they gain power, introducing technologies decades or centuries prior to their development, using knowledge of the past to increase one’s wealth in the present. I could spend hours writing a list and still not cover everything.
“That’s why the only person living outside our walls who knows of the Chasers and what they do is the king, and even his knowledge is limited to believing that we can only witness the past, not interact with it. If he knew the full extent of its abilities, well…”
With the experience and education I’ve gained at the institute, I can see the necessity of limiting the Crown’s knowledge, but I can’t stop the feeling of dread that grips my chest for holding knowledge back from the king. It’s a reaction rooted in how I was brought up, how all in the empire are brought up.
“You can see now that it’s imperative we guard against those who might attempt to obtain our secret,” Sir Gregory continues. “Abducting one of our members while he’s out for a walk would be a simple thing. We can’t expose institute personnel to that kind of danger. The Chaser and what it allows us to do must be protected at all costs.”
“So we’re imprisoned here.”
“The institute would never phrase it that way. The grounds are expansive, and you are one of the lucky ones. As a Rewinder, you get out all the time. Think of the others here — the companions, the administrative staff, the security officers. If anyone is imprisoned here, they are.”
Up until this afternoon, despite some of the lingering questions, I’ve never felt any doubts about joining the program. Now, I can feel them starting to creep in.
“You do understand, don’t you?” Sir Gregory asks.
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“And you’ll be able to live with these conditions?”
Do I have a choice? “Absolutely.”
I focus all my energy on work so that I won’t think too much about what Sir Gregory has told me.
I’m aided in this by the project Johnston and I are assigned. It’s a comprehensive rewind of an old and influential Midlands family. Their ancestral lore speaks of deep roots in England, and while those are indeed there, lines also lead to German, Dutch, and — the family will not be pleased about this — French relatives.
It’s usually at night, as I’m waiting for sleep to take me, that my mind drifts in directions I don’t want it to go. Some nights I see myself running along the institute’s outer walls, screaming, “Let me out! Let me out!” Other nights, I see a dead Harlan Walker IV in his open casket, surrounded by bags of cash labeled Upjohn Institute, or Johnston balling up dozens of newspapers that he buries me in, or Palmer arching in pain over and over and over as he screams, “Denny!”
It’s a beautiful spring evening and I’m taking advantage of it by reading a book in the back gardens. The topic is the Protestant reformation, a period I’ll be visiting on an upcoming assignment. It’s a dry subject not holding my interest, so the moment I hear loud footsteps, I look up and see Lidia racing out of the main building. I’ve seen her in foul moods before, but I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her this angry.
When she nears the reflecting pool, she begins turning around as if she’s decided to go back inside, but then she spots me and makes a beeline in my direction.
“Did you know about this?” she asks as she nears me.
“About what?”
“You know very well what I’m talking about.”
“Go bother someone else, Lidia.” I look back at my book.
She points past me. “I’m talking about that!”
When I twist around, all I can see is the wide grass field and the distant institute wall.
As I turn back, she says, “How long have you known that we’re locked in here?”
So that’s it. She’s just had the talk with Sir Gregory. Despite the tension between us, I can’t help but feel some sympathy. “I was told only a few weeks ago. Before that I didn’t know, either.”
She gapes at me. “A few weeks ago? It didn’t cross your mind to share that information?”
“Before I left, Sir Gregory made me promise not—”
“I don’t care what he told you to do. You had an obligation to your fellow trainees. You should have told us as soon as you left his office!”
I consider letting her know she’s the first from the group I’ve seen since then, but it’d probably fall on deaf ears so I only say, “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Her face twists so tight that I’m sure she’s about to unleash a torrent of rage on me, but then she takes a breath and looks toward the wall again. “My father won’t stand for this.”
Without another word, she whirls around and races back toward the main building.
I see her the next evening in the dining hall, sitting alone. The anger from the night before has been replaced by a distant stare. I know I should let her be, but her words about my obligation to my group have stuck with me. It’s the Eight in me, always feeling the need to do more for others than they do for me. So I stop at her table before collecting my meal.
“How are you doing?”
I’m not sure she’s heard me until she slowly tilts her head up. Her gaze is on me but I feel like she’s looking through me. “He already knew,” she whispers. “He arranged for me to be here, and he already knew.”
Her eyes remain on me for a few more seconds before she looks away and stares off at nothing again.
I ask if she’s all right but she doesn’t respond this time. I decide to let it be and retrieve my meal.
Lidia must have been talking about her father. But how would he have gotten her into the institute? I’ve been under the impression we’re all here because of our test scores. It’s clear, though, that she thinks he had a hand in it, and that he already knew she’d never leave once she’s inside. If that’s even partially true, I actually feel sorry for her.
As I eat my meal, I think things have gotten as strange as they could get.
But I’m wrong.
Two days later, in the prep room as I dress for a trip back to 1924, I find a note.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The note is in the pocket of the trousers I’ll be wearing on my mission. I initially think it’s a piece of rubbish that somehow was missed by the support staff, but when I pull it out, I find it’s not all stuck together as if it’s been through the wash. It’s folded into a small square. Curious, I open it.
There are four lines of machine-printed type: my name on the first, a Chaser location number on the second, a date and time — MARCH 16, 1982, 4:30 PM — on the third, and the words COME DISCONNECTED ONLY on the last.
I’ve no idea what the final line means, but it’s obvious someone wants me to travel to the coordinates.
As to who might have left it for me, the first person that comes to mind is Lidia. Perhaps she’s still furious with me for not telling her about our confinement and wants to take it out on me somewhere outside the institute’s grounds. But the last time I saw her, she was more in a state of resignation than fury.
Perhaps the note is some sort of institute test to see if I’m willing to make an unauthorized jump. We’ve been told that doing so without the knowledge of the mission staff is grounds for immediate reassignment.
I hear the door start to open so I slip the note back into my pocket, just as Johnston enters the room. Ten minutes later, we leave 2015 behind.
As we work, my mind drifts now and then back to the note in my pocket, but at least I’m smart enough not to pull it out. When we come back to our home time, I slip the note from one pair of trousers to the other as I change.