Rewrite Redemption (2 page)

“Move it, Moron!”

I jumped backwards, almost getting slammed by a kid twice my size.

“Keep out of the freaking way you stupid, little twerp,” growled the Bratz Doll, two inches from my ear. “I’m not going to have my team lose points because of your worthless ass. Next time you’re going down.”

I ignored her, following rule four, but the empty feeling in my chest grew a little colder. I shoved it down deep and checked the clock for the hundredth time.
Come on already…let this class be over!

Finally, Ms. Norris blew her whistle, and the hordes rushed from the gym. I waited till the crowd thinned, and the Bratz Doll was gone, before I braved the locker room.

The empty feeling lifted a little, the moment I pulled on my oversized black hoodie. I zipped it up and yanked the hood, so it hung down like Kenny on
South Park
. I put on my tinted glasses. I slung my bag over my shoulder. Then I hugged the walls on the way to my locker, relieved once again, to be invisible.

Seattle, Washington, present day.

Lately, I’ve had to remind myself; I’m just a kid, not some attendant in a psych ward, or an actor in a horror movie waiting for my turn to scream. I take stock constantly, trying to hold on to what little thread of reality I have left. When things get really bad, I pull out my driver’s license and read it. Like if I didn’t remind myself who I was—the normal stuff—I might lose myself completely in this nightmare.

Each day, while I shave, I repeat the basics just to ground myself. I’m Constantine DeMille, a senior, seventeen, six foot one, 175 pounds. I have black hair, blue eyes, no identifying scars, or marks, except the tattoo of a tree branch around my left wrist. No rank, no serial number, not likely to acquire them in the future.

I’m not much for team sports, but I love a full-out run. So I do cross-country because it takes time to really feel the speed. I need music like I need air which means I play a mean guitar and am so-so on the keyboards. I love physics and art—chemistry, not so much. I’m young, alive, and walking around free.

Walking, that’s where the thread snaps. My brother will never walk again. Free…that’s becoming questionable.

Of course the prison is of my own making.

I felt like I’d been sent to the auto graveyard, smashed by a crusher into a jagged block, and piled with the rest of my family into a useless mountain of metal. Then someone came along, toppled the mountain over, and tried to iron us out into identifiable shapes—make us as we were before. But we were so damaged; we were beyond repair. We’d always be dinged and banged up and scratched and scraped. We’d always be a pile of junk.

And I’d caused the accident.

How do you atone for something like that? I couldn’t even confess because my parents didn’t know the secret, the “not-normal” part of me—and I’ve sworn not to reveal it. They didn’t know about the Guild or time travel. They didn’t connect the accident with me. They just sat in the dark, moaning, “why did this happen?”  

I wanted to shout, “Because I messed up—I’m really, really sorry!” 

But that’s not an option.

I wasn’t home when my brother fell off the roof, snapping his spine, changing our lives forever. I wasn’t there when my mom found him lying broken on the ground. I wasn’t there when they told my parents he’d never walk again. But mostly, I wasn’t there to catch him when he fell…like I was the
first
time it happened. They didn’t know I’d changed the timeline. My parents didn’t know
I
was the why.

But the Guild knew.

I remember the sentencing like it was yesterday. It played over and over in my brain, driving me crazy, stamped for eternity on the hard disk of my mind. They came for me, two suits, and told me I’d been summoned. I had no choice but to comply. The stark room was empty, except for a long steel table, at which sat the six Regents who would judge my crime and decide my fate. A spotlight provided the only illumination, and it focused on me, the guilty one. Shadows of the Regents loomed large and ominous against the wall, making giants of my judge and jury.

Making me seem small.

I was a frame in a graphic novel, drained of color, with a faded background, and my agonized face laid bare for all to see.

I wanted desperately to turn the page.

Head down and hands behind my back, I stood alone. My throat was dry, and I regretted not grabbing a drink before the trip. But the suits hadn’t given me time to do anything. They’d simply appeared beside my redwood tree, each one grasping an arm, and seconds later, we were morphing into the Guild courtyard. Talk about a speedy trial. The vibes in the room were cold as ice, and I suppressed a shiver and the urge to rub my arms. Wishing I’d worn a jacket, I waited, saying nothing.

I had no defense.

I also had no clue what abilities these Regents possessed. The hardwood floor was old and bare, and I worried they might be using it as a conductor to mindspeak with each other, leaving me in the dark. I wasn’t clueless. I knew, that they knew, that I knew, I’d broken a rule. The most important rule, the one they hold most sacred. It was too late now, but I was deeply regretting my impulse-control issues.

Slowly I raised my head and flinched as accusing eyes attacked me. My kind, we have unusual eyes. Our pupils are large—our glares intense. And when those eyes look at you—especially six pairs of them—you know you’re being looked at. This was not good. I was on the shit list of a group that could zip back in time and keep my parents from meeting. I took a step back, bracing for the attack.

Finally, the head Regent stood. He was tall and thin, with a long face, and bristly, gray hair. “You know the Prime Dictate,” he said as he glared at me, accusing, blaming, waiting for me to answer.

They all waited.

I fought the urge to toss out excuses. “Yes, sir,” I said, instead.

“And it is?” he gestured. The shadow of his hand moved across the wall like a gigantic clutching claw.

I felt my throat constrict, along with a desperate urge to haul-ass out the door.

He looked like he wanted to strangle me. Who knew? I had no clue, really, about the inner workings of the Guild hierarchy. Without consequences to their actions—since they can go back in time and change anything—who knew
what
they did behind closed doors.

 “Manipulating one’s own timeline is forbidden,” I answered as I shifted my balance from side to side.

“Yet, you did exactly that.”

“I was only trying to—”

“It doesn’t matter what you were
trying
to do, Mr. DeMille. You dove head first into the deep, dark world of consequence…on a whim no less. You broke the Prime Dictate.”

“But I—”

“Do you know why it is forbidden?” The interruption came from an ancient woman, who’d been staring hate darts at me since she walked into the room. She curled her lip and arched her eyebrows, and it was clear that she, at least, completely had it in for me. I was toast.

“Going back in time and editing the past is the most serious of actions,” I recited, trying to sound respectful. I could see by their faces that they were underwhelmed. I was not only toast; I was ten ways of totally screwed. I hesitated, fumbling for the words.

“Mr. DeMille…? She gestured for me to continue.

 “As Editors, our numbers are few, yet our purpose is to ensure that Earth survives the technological age,” I continued. “Tampering with one’s own timeline is seductive. It can quickly become an addiction. An Editor, who becomes addicted, not only endangers our purpose, he or she is a danger to all of humanity.”

“And yet you did this willingly for…what was it again?” she asked.

I had an answer all planned; but with them glaring at me, my mind went blank. “I—”

“To get out of being grounded,” said the head Regent in disgust. “Isn’t that right, Mr. DeMille?”

“Yes, sir,” I admitted, biting the inside of my cheek.

He grabbed a tablet and scrolled down the page. “So that you could see a rock concert.” He sighed heavily and looked at the others who shook their heads in disappointment.

I cringed. When you put it that way, it sounded totally lame. It seemed so simple at the time. I certainly didn’t think anyone would get hurt or that I’d get caught. But someone did get hurt, and I did get caught. And now, I was deeply ashamed.

Still, I found myself defending my actions. “But it was just a tiny edit—”

“The smallest event can set off mind-boggling chain reactions,” the Regent interrupted, frowning. “Mistakes are as serious as the results they cause, and sometimes those results take years to manifest.”  

“I barely changed anything,” I argued. “I never thought it would hurt—”

“An Editor, who can’t control himself, is dangerous, Mr. DeMille. Surely you can see that. Far more disturbing, than the results of your actions, is the total lack of forethought. Mastering the Prime Dictate is the litmus test for entry into the ranks of the Guild, for earning the privilege to travel back in time. It signifies mastery of oneself.

“Changing the timeline is not something you do on a whim. There are three, possibly four Shadow Editors out there that are wreaking havoc in ways you can’t even begin to imagine. Each of them began with what you call a “tiny” edit, altering their timeline a little here and a little there. Our whole economy runs on predicting the future. When you have the unlimited ability to provide information to yourself in the past, you can amass unimaginable wealth and power. You can also become addicted to that power.”

He shook his head and glared at me. “Addiction is a powerful force. An Editor’s addiction to exponentially increasing power puts the entire planet in jeopardy. We cannot afford to lose you to that kind of obsession. Nor can we afford to let you just skip through time as if it was your own personal amusement park. We might not be able to control the Shadows, Mr. DeMille, but we can control
you
.”

“I know that,” I told them, looking as repentant as I could. “I deeply regret what happened, and believe me, I’m paying for it.”

“And you will continue to pay,” said the head Regent, looking to the others for agreement. They nodded one by one. He stood to pronounce my sentence. “Constantine Evan DeMille, this is the rule of the Board of Regents. Your signature has been blocked from the root matrix. You can no longer travel through time.” He banged his gavel. “Let it be so entered into the records of this hearing.”

Every cell in my body shivered with dread. This couldn’t be happening! This was way bigger than just me suffering the consequences. My family shouldn’t have to pay for my mistake. I
had
to change their minds. “But the accident…my brother…please, let me just go back one more time and fix it,” I pleaded.

“What’s done is done,” the Regent said. “The most important lesson an Editor must learn is to control his impulses. You must learn patience, adherence to rules, and that there are consequences to your actions. You must learn restraint…forethought.”

“But you can’t just leave it this way! My brother’s paralyzed. My family’s losing it—”

“They are not our concern. You, however, are. Let this be a lesson, Constantine. It is a grave responsibility to be an Editor, to travel back in time. You knew that. You willingly defied our most sacred rule. This action today is of your own making.”

“But someone else—”

“The decision is final,” he said, standing up to leave. His voice was like winter, spare and cold, and so were the eyes that stared me down. “Every member of the Guild has been informed and barred from interfering in this matter. We change the timeline to better humankind, young man. Editors can’t just be out there rewriting anything they want. A line has to be drawn somewhere.”

“But—”

“Silence, Mr. DeMille,” hissed a stern, grey-haired woman. “This is not open to discussion. You should be grateful that you haven’t been dropped from the Editor Program completely. We will revisit the option of renewing your privileges two years from this date. Until then, your signature is blocked. You are lucky to get this chance. I suggest you take it seriously. This meeting is over.” 

And as far as I was concerned, so was my life.