Authors: Zach Milan
Skyline
Skyline
Copyright © 2016 by Zach Milan. All rights reserved.
Pond & Frame Press
Denver, CO
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016934769
ISBN 978-0-9973457-0-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-9973457-1-1 (paperback)
ISBN 978-0-9973457-2-8 (e-book)
For Jeof,
I can’t believe
my luck
To be in this timeline
With you.
A burnt-apple smell
pervaded New York City. The sun rose, the humidity blasted, and the
subways trundled along their way, but as far as anyone was concerned, only the
smell mattered. Doctors’ appointments ran long, patients too distracted by the
scent to focus on their problems. Businessmen relaxed, laughing despite their
workload. Strangers on subways struck up conversations with one another.
Discussing the smell was like talking about a particularly hot day: absolutely
necessary even though everyone else was already doing it.
Good
Morning America
brought in an
olfaction scientist and added a new segment on their favorite apple pies. CNN
had several interviews about the last mystery smell, when the city woke up to a
maple syrup scent, with scientists speculating what had caused this one: a
factory in New Jersey? A “burp” from the Upper Bay? An atmospheric
irregularity? Anderson Cooper, his nose pinched in a large clothespin, sent his
crew throughout the city to discover where the smell was the strongest, but it
was just a joke, a way to fill time.
No
one knew the origin. No one could stop smelling it after hours of exposure.
But
at noon, no one cared about the joke of a burnt-apple smell.
For
a single second the sky of New York City illuminated with white light. Two
bright lines, each three blocks wide, cut through Manhattan. One swept up from
the Statue of Liberty to the Plaza Hotel. Another flashed between Roosevelt
Island in the East River and Pier Fifty-four on the Hudson. After the second
passed, the sky returned to normal, but the light had destroyed everything in
its path. In a heartbeat, the blink of an eye, a flap of a pigeon’s wings, a
crooked cross was carved into the city.
The
lines had cut deep into the subway tunnels, into the sewers below, until nothing
was left but rock, sloping up at a curve to the newly formed cliffs. The
buildings left intact tottered on the edge, twisting until they tumbled into
the new pit. Subway trains rushed along their broken path, arcing out into the
sudden daylight and crashing onto the newly exposed rocks.
Water
sprang forth, gushing west from the East River, east from the Hudson, and north
through Battery Park. It met at the center—where the New York Public Library
had once been—with a colossal wave crash, taking stunned New Yorkers along with
it. Those who could gain their bearings fast enough fled the subway platforms,
scrambling up stairwells. The roaring water helped them up the final ten feet,
leaving them gasping beside the submerged entrance.
Survivors
throughout the city gaped, their lunch companions suddenly gone. Whole families
evaporated, but those that only lost a daughter or son didn’t feel lucky.
Hundreds of businesses vanished, only a few lucky late-to-work employees
survived.
In
total, one million two hundred thousand fifteen people were lost.
The
city erupted in fury and fear, no one sure whether anywhere was safe. Every
news organization grappled with the sudden shift from funny to tragic. No one
could make sense of the morning’s events, no one could understand what happened
at noon.
Every
policeman and fireman was called in, trying to calm people without answers.
Swimming into the subways to save the stranded thousands inside. Evacuating
people from the rare buildings that had only been half-destroyed.
A
state of emergency was declared, with politicians promising resolution, a fight
against whatever terrorist had committed this heinous act. The President
demanded peace, calm, and a mindset of kindness. This wasn’t an inside job;
America had to stand together to endure.
New
Yorkers rose to the challenge. With so many missing, those remaining were
cherished. The newly homeless were accepted into strangers’ apartments.
Restaurants and bodegas provided free meals to anyone in need.
Midnight
came, but no one slept. Everyone’s eyes were glued to their various screens,
hoping for any sign of how this had happened.
The
tragedy was on everyone’s lips, but instantly hushed, like a demon that would
appear once named.
The
Blast did more than decimate New York City; it changed the course of every New
Yorker’s life.
•
• • • • • • • • • • •
In the days
that followed April 8, 2016, scientists scrambled. Politicians postured. New
Yorkers mourned.
How
could this happen? Who did this? And why would anyone do such a thing?
No
terrorist organizations rose to claim the attack. No forensic evidence was
found no matter how many divers were enlisted. No letter of demands followed.
The Blast had no specifics besides its destruction.
Every
American said, “Never again.” But how could a second Blast be avoided? If
whoever made the Blast wasn’t finished, what would keep them from initiating
another? And another?
Years
passed. People focused on rebuilding, revitalizing the city. It was the
beginning of a Golden Era for New York City. A time for reinvention,
imagination, and connection.
The
Blast remained on everyone’s minds, but they stopped wondering how, why, or
who.
•
• • • • • • • • • • •
But
I know
how an entire cross-section of New York City could be taken out at once. I know
why someone would do such a thing. Which means, naturally, I know who did it.
I
did.
THE ASTROLABE
Charlotte
stomped away from the shadows where she hadn’t been seconds before. She paused
in her huff to let her eyes adjust to the dark, setting a glass orb into her
large leather purse. This section of the Mid River’s waterfront was unused at
night, aside from a single softly lit bar a few doors away. Outside Suni’s sat
Leanor, exactly where Charlotte had left her.
Three
years of hard work, and tonight Charlotte would regain what she’d lost.
At
least she hadn’t lost Leanor.
While
everyone else was lit by glowing cigarettes and phone screens, the older woman
was bathed in moonlight, content to sit peacefully and wait. Her eyes reflected
the lights of the Triangle across the water, glittering toward Charlotte.
When
Charlotte reached the table, she collapsed onto a chair beside Leanor and took
a long drink from her beer. Despite all her time away, the glass mug hadn’t
lost its ridge of frost. Would she ever get used to that?
She
set the now half-full glass down with a thud, fished a crumpled page from her
pocket, and then tossed it onto the metal table.
Leanor
didn’t even bat an eye. “No good?”
“Everything
was wrong. Too far, too dirty, too mundane, too obscure, too sensational.”
Her
boss arched a white eyebrow. “Eons of time, and everything’s too
too
?”
Through
squinted eyes, Charlotte couldn’t decide what Leanor was saying. Either she was
commiserating, or she was teasing. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Charlotte said.
“Monroe’ll know when to go.” It’d taken hours to come to that decision.
She
should’ve had a better solution for all her work.
Leanor
lifted the crumpled ball and smoothed it out into Charlotte’s list. Written
with a burnt sienna crayon—always readily accessible since her son Charlie had
decided it captured her color best—were a series of dates, all crossed off.
“Perhaps it’ll be better this way.”
Charlotte
glanced at her watch, then shook her head. “Providing he isn’t late.”
Leanor
reached over and laid a hand on Charlotte’s back, rubbing. Even through
Charlotte’s starched white shirt, Leanor’s hand felt cool. She always didn’t
quite fit. Cool in the warm air now, too hot at winter. That was Leanor: a
little out of place.
For
a while, that was Charlotte, too. Now it was time to fit back in.
Releasing
her shoulders, Charlotte sighed her tension away.
Leanor
drew back her hand and took a drink of her water. Set it down. Paused, then
asked, “And Felix? Charlie?”
“Easy,”
Charlotte said. She’d decided on this plan almost a year ago. “I’m going to
introduce Charlie to Dad. And Monroe’ll come, obviously. But I wanted …”
Charlotte
looked to the darkened Mid River the Blast had made seven years ago. After a
rumble, a brightly lit subway train shot out under the water and disappeared
below the landmass across the way. The Triangle formed by the southern and
western arms of the Mid River was bright with revelry, but silent from across
three blocks of water. A tiny light pushed away from the Triangle’s shoreline:
a gondola crossing the river. “I wanted a little brother-sister time first.”
Leanor
didn’t reply, and Charlotte didn’t look over.
Maybe
she should’ve had her husband and son arrive first. But no, Monroe would be
furious if he didn’t get to see Dad, too. Anyway, he was the history lover. It
made more sense to give Monroe all the time he needed, then pick up Felix and
Charlie for their trip together.
Charlotte
smoothed out the side mohawk that Monroe had insisted would suit her. He had never
cut his own hair, but he liked directing hers. And he was right, she got
compliment after compliment—so long as it fell to the left. The light grew
larger, close enough to split into two. One lamp at the front of the gondola,
one at the back. Monroe claimed the two lights signified the dual paths of the
Blast, but Charlotte liked to think it was simply for usefulness: one lamp to
light the way, one to show where the boat ended.
As
the vessel neared Charlotte plucked the glass sphere from her leather bag. She
weighed it in her hands—heavier than its grapefruit size suggested—staring into
its inky depths. They’d named it an astrolabe, but it looked nothing like the
old metal devices captains used for navigation. “I can’t believe we’re finally
done.” She looked from the orb back to Leanor, one side of her lips tugging
upward. “I’m going to miss you.”
Now
that they’d completed the astrolabe, it was time for Charlotte to settle back
into her family. To reconnect with her husband, be her child’s caretaker, hang
out with her twin brother. After this past year of long hours and busy
weekends, it would be nice to focus her energy on home instead. But would she
drift away from Leanor even worse than she had her own family?
As
Charlotte centered the glass sphere on the circular table, Leanor’s cool hand
fell onto hers. “Don’t worry.” Her tone was joking, but her eyelids hooded her
blue eyes, dimming their usual brightness. “You won’t get rid of me that
easily.”
“I
just meant …” Charlotte began, but shook it off. Leanor understood; she always
did. Why else would there be sadness in her eyes tonight? From her purse on the
ground, Charlotte pulled a folded piece of purple velvet and shook it, letting
it fall across the orb. The fabric settled, wrinkles leading up to the bulging
middle.
Ready
to impress Monroe.
When
Charlotte looked up, her mentor’s slate eyes were almost staring through her.
“I mean it, Charlotte. We’re not done. If anything, this is a beginning.”
Some
other project? Or maybe Leanor wanted her input on the future of this device.
“I hope so,” Charlotte said.
Before
she could continue, ask what Leanor had in mind next, Monroe’s voice came from
across the water, “Char!”
Tonight,
whatever they did, whenever they went, was about her and him.
“Thank
you for tonight,” Charlotte murmured, standing up from her chair.
“He’s
going to love it,” Leanor said, and together they watched a shining black
gondola glide up to the thick rubber that ran along every edge of the Mid
River.
Monroe
leaped out—suddenly illuminated in the bright gondola lights—and the boat
teetered dangerously in the waves he’d made. Monroe didn’t look back; he
splayed his arms wide, matching his grin.
Her
twin was nothing like a mirror—all smiles and softness, long hair, skinny and
tall and dressed in an embroidered dragon shirt. All they had in common was
copper skin, black hair, and crooked smiles, which Charlotte now matched.
“’Roe,” she said to herself and began walking the distance toward Monroe as he
closed it with a run. When they met, he crushed her into a hug, his skinny arms
squeezing tighter than she ever expected.
He
pulled back and said, “Good to see you, sis. It’s been”—he stretched out his
face as he elongated the final word—“
ages
.”
She
chuckled, but it had been a while. Four months since their birthday, three more
since Christmas. Tonight would change that. “It’s good to see you.”
“Not
just me,” Monroe said, twisting back to the gondola, still rocking on the
shore. “I hope it’s okay.” Charlotte followed his gaze and saw a wide,
jeans-clad leg step into the light. Then a T-shirt, the belly underneath
stretching what had to be a sci-fi logo. Because the bald, bearded man stepping
from the boat was Monroe’s geeky boyfriend, Bill.
Charlotte
had to pinch her eyes shut and grind her teeth together, just so she could
speak the words, “Of course.” Monroe went back to grab Bill, but Charlotte
remained rooted to the ground. Bill could ruin all of this, ruin her surprise,
make this a normal night instead of something amazing. But Charlotte held a hand
out, trying to arrange her face to be pleasant, kind, accepting. “Bill, good to
see you. Still working at Starbucks?”
Bill
took her hand, and she found herself squeezing too hard, her bicep flexing. But
Bill squeezed back, smiling through his dark beard. “For now. Figuring out
what’s next.”
A
shiver ran through Charlotte. She and Bill always seemed to be on the same
page, no matter when they met. But then, he didn’t seem enraged to see
her
.
“I
can’t believe it’s ready,” Monroe said. Bill slid an arm around his back,
Monroe tossed his long black ponytail, and the men walked beside her back to
Leanor.
Who
sat
smiling
.
“I
told Bill all about it,” Monroe continued. “A modern astrolabe, usable even on
starless nights, even if GPS cuts out. For kids, for captains, for
k-k-k”—Monroe snapped his fingers—“
kooky
astrologists.”
“It
sounds fascinating, Charlotte,” Bill said, his deep voice as eager as Monroe’s.
Charlotte
didn’t reply to either of them. She couldn’t.
When
they reached the table, Leanor stood, patted her curly white hair, and offered
a hand. “Monroe, always good to see you. And Bill? A pleasant surprise.”
Pleasant?
There was no way Charlotte could show Monroe the orb now. Illuminating it out
here was one thing, but after that … Charlotte liked Bill well enough; that
didn’t mean he should be included.
Why
didn’t Leanor seem bothered? Because Bill was white, like Leanor? Charlotte had
learned the benefit of traveling with a white person. Because of his shirt? Now
that she looked, Charlotte realized that the logo was from a show about a
doctor who traveled through time. Or because of something else entirely?
How
could this be a pleasant surprise?
Bill’s
forehead crinkled downward. “Surprise? But Monroe—”
“I
told him it was okay,” Monroe said. “Didn’t you say this was a fresh start?”
His smooth hands closed around her calloused ones, squeezing. All she could
feel was their differences. He and Bill happily together, Monroe having fun for
the past year instead of working longer and longer hours, the fact that he
seemed fine without her. Coming here was just a lark to him, not vital.
“I’ll
get drinks,” Bill said, his pale green eyes darting between Monroe and
Charlotte. She couldn’t imagine what look her face was giving. “Monroe, the
jalapeño thing? Charlotte, need anything? Leanor?” He paused, but no one
replied. “Back in a bit.”
As
soon as he disappeared through Suni’s doorway, Charlotte exhaled.
“It’s
been
months
,” she said, twisting on a single heel to Monroe. “Months and
I—”
“Whose
fault is that?” Monroe lifted his hands and waggled them like an asshole. “I
invited you to trivia in January; you were busy. Ice skating in February; you’d
gone with Charlie already. To go with Charlie to the LEGO store in April; you
and Felix were on a date. A
date
.”
Charlotte
crushed her teeth together, holding in her retort.
When
she didn’t contradict him, Monroe snorted and crashed onto a metal chair,
dangling his long legs off the side. “I’m thrilled,
thrilled
that the
astrolabe’s done, Char. But don’t put this on me. Bill’s a part of my life,
just like I’m a part of yours.”
“I—”
“It
doesn’t matter.” Monroe swiveled himself into a seated position. “Let’s get
this over with. You wanted a little alone time?” He looked pointedly at Leanor,
then back to Charlotte. “You’ve got a minute or so before Bill gets back with
drinks.”
This
time Charlotte didn’t respond. She didn’t take the bait about Leanor. None of
this would be happening without her. Her mentor continued watching, smile
faltering as Charlotte kept her lips pressed together.
“You’re
wasting your minute,” Monroe said.
Still
Charlotte didn’t speak. She stared Monroe down. Didn’t speak a fucking word for
the entire two minutes. Monroe stared back with a lifted eyebrow, but didn’t
argue.
When
Bill returned, Charlotte said crisply, “Good, you’re back. We didn’t want to
start without you.”
Now
Monroe leaned over, snaking a hand over the metal to clutch hers again. “Char,
he’s family.”
Like
a spark, that simple word changed everything. Warmth flooded Charlotte’s
fingers, and she squeezed back. “I get that, ’Roe.”
She
couldn’t help but glance at Leanor, who dipped her head, acknowledging that it
was okay.
Charlotte
released Monroe’s hand, and let hers fall to the table and the crushed purple
velvet. It felt smooth and rich in her hands, hundreds of little fibers
pressing up against her fingers. Three long years, and this was the moment. If
Leanor was okay with it, then Charlotte would be too.
If
Bill was family, he was family.
So
Charlotte took hold of the velvet and wrenched it away, revealing the astrolabe.
It
almost looked like a glass softball, but instead of stitching, there was a
single ridge separating the orb into two halves. Beneath the glass was a deep
inky black. As Monroe and Bill leaned in, bulbous reflections peered back.
