The Curiosity Killers (30 page)

Students rushed to the back of the room in a stampede, nearly trampling Violet under sneakers and sandals. Davis was no longer beside her. She struggled to her feet, searching for Ben—
oh, thank God, there!
—and Wilbur. She heard a strange sound, not quite a gunshot, not quite an explosion. The smell of ozone filled the air.

Wilbur?

Where Wilbur Wright stood a second earlier was nothing but a scorch mark marring the plaster of the wall.

“
No.
”

Ben leaped; the gun fired again—this time into the ceiling—and then gunshots rattled off, their irregularity familiar to Violet from her academy training.
Someone who doesn’t shoot very often, or at all.

The younger Claudio stood with a tiny pistol in his hand, the barrel smoking. He looked startled and scared, and for the first time Violet could see that given another direction in life, a kinder direction, he might have been handsome in a fragile sort of way. His hair fell over his forehead, making him seem less a college student and more a lost little boy.

“I don’t know what I…” The young man’s voice trailed off, and Violet followed his gaze.

The older Claudio was on the floor, clutching his abdomen. Blood seeped from between his fingers. Ben stood nearby but made no move to help him.

“I’m not your father,” the older man gasped. “And I’m not supposed to die. I
can’t
die.” He laughed, but the laughter became a cough. Blood spattered across the hardwood planks. “Wanna see how much I can’t die?” He raised his own weapon and fired it at his younger self.

Both men vanished.

Friday, September 3, 2100, Avon, Vermont, USA

“I think he’s coming to. Do check out that woman, though, would you, Kris?” There was a murmur and a pause. “Ben? You all right, lad?”

The face staring down at Ben as he opened his eyes was fuzzy and backlit. The voice was wrong, but still he murmured Vere’s name.

“What’s that, then?” The face leaned in closer to his own. Ben’s eyes focused on the features, the long, almost bulbous nose, and the sandy hair streaked with a few lines of gray along the temples. The voice was heavily accented but not with Vere’s Mid-Atlantic rounded consonants and long vowels. Instead it was mushy and fast, a thick Cockney.

“Am…brose?”

Ambrose nodded. “You’re all right, boy-o, ain’t ya?”

No. Not even a little bit, not if what Claudio said was true.

“He killed Eddy, didn’t he? Claudio, I mean.” Ben tried to sit up, but his head pounded.

“Oof, watch it, there. Haven’t given you the antidote yet.”

Before Ben could protest or question, Ambrose stuck a long needle into Ben’s arm and pushed down on the plunger. Whatever the syringe was filled with was thick and sent fire racing through Ben’s veins. He shouted and squeezed his eyes shut.

“What the hell is that?”

“The antidote, you dolt,” Ambrose said. He pulled the needle from Ben’s arm and shoved a wad of cotton onto the injection site. “Blimey, did we not retrieve you fast enough this time? You’ve already forgotten? Prevents the clots, it does, so you don’t risk a bloody aneurism every trip, right? Only been givin’ you this shite for five years now, ever since we started the agency.”

Ben’s head cleared, and he finally struggled up to sitting. “Wait, wait, wait,
we
started the agency?”

“Course we did, lad. Us three.” He canted his head to one side, where Kris stood holding a tray of instruments, both medical and electrical.

It was then Ben took the room in at last—
really
took it in—and saw that what Vere managed to rig up as a serviceable if Mary Shelley-esque cellar laboratory was transformed into something sleek and gleaming, an O.R. and a computing workroom combined. The walls were white, and flat-paneled screens decorated them every few feet. Some showed Ben’s own vital signs, which he recognized due to their movements growing more fevered as he felt his heart speed up. Some showed a moving diagram of the time travel accelerator, and still others showed newscasters, muted, their words scrolling at the bottom of the screen in closed captioning.

It was the newscasters who then drew Ben’s attention. One network showed a man and a woman, both of different ethnic groups, while a graphic in the top right of the screen indicated the feed originated in Missouri.

“Is that right?” Ben gaped at the screen, unable to pull his eyes away. The woman was Asian, perhaps in her early fifties, and the man, despite being white, spoke with her with what seemed congeniality and respect. “How are they allowed on the same show together if it’s coming out of the RAA?”

“The what what what?” Kris asked. She looked at the screen. “Hey, Aunt Sybil’s on. That’s awesome. I only ever get to see her on TV, living this far away.” She put the tray of instruments down. “There’s always holidays, but still, that’s only a few times a year.”

“You travel between here and there a few times a
year
?” Ben asked. “
You
? They let you?”

“Um, if you mean you and Ambrose, being my bosses and letting me have time off, yeah,
they
do.” Kris stared at Ben. “You’re acting super weird, man. Oh, hey, I think this lady you brought back is waking up.” She scurried off to another table.

Ben hopped off his own and followed Kris. “The lady?” There Violet was, just now coming around, too. Kris gave her an injection while she was still drowsy. “Violet, you mean?”

“Is that her name?” Kris asked.

A tall man rounded a corner.

“You brought somebody back?” he asked.

“Pop?” Violet was now awake and looked up at Michael. “What’re you doing here?”

Michael laughed. “Pop? Hoo, that’d be funny, wouldn’t it, babe?”

Ambrose came over and threaded his arm through Michael’s. “The only kids we got walk on four legs.”

“Hey, but maybe we should talk about that,” Michael said. “Lotsa kids need good homes.”

“You think ours is a good home?”

“What the hell?” Violet got down from her table. “Ben, what’s going on?”

We did it. We stopped Claudio, or rather Claudio stopped himself.

He had to be sure, though. Vere would prove it. If Claudio killed him to get the weapon in the original timeline, then his demise undid Vere’s murder.

“Guys, I’m sorry we’re acting so strange. This is…” He turned to Violet, suddenly unsure of what all this meant for her identity. Was she Violet Lessep, adopted daughter of Michael, plucky FBI agent and time traveler? Or was she Virginia Dare, the first child of English parents born on NBE soil?

No. Not NBE. This was probably still America. Probably.

“Violet,” she said, holding out her hand to the man who raised her but now didn’t seem to know her. “Violet Dare.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Michael said, taking it in his own. Instead of shaking it, though, he turned it palm down, bent low, and planted a light kiss on her knuckles.

“Must you be so dramatic?” Ambrose asked.

“I must.”

“Guys, where is Eddy? I want to ask him if we were successful.”

“You said that name before,” Kris said. She muted the TV. “Who are you talking about?”

Who
am
I talking about? If we changed things, who would Eddy be in this new reality?

“Our, ah, other partner. Doctor Edward Vere.” Ben turned to Violet. “You remember Eddy, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she replied. She glanced at Michael. “I remember everybody.”

It wasn’t just Vere who was missing, of course. They should’ve been coming back a trio. Ben wondered what to tell Alison.

“Violet, would you like some tea?” Ben asked. He turned to Ambrose and Michael. “I need to debrief her on—”

“I bet you—”

“This
decade
,” Ben said, cutting Kris off. She rolled her eyes.

“You are such a prude,” she said.

He rushed at her and enveloped her small body into a bear hug. “I’m so glad some things never change.”

“Ugh, get off me, weirdo,” Kris grumped. She wriggled out of Ben’s embrace. “Whatever. Go drink your stinky tea or something. Jesus.”

Violet followed Ben upstairs. The first floor of the building was largely unchanged, but one row of bookcases was replaced by a computer system so advanced Ben doubted he’d even be able to find the on switch. As he passed it, its screen sprang to life. “Good evening, Mister Jonson,” a crisp voice said. “How may I be of service?”

Violet drew back a step. “Whoa, what the hell is that?”

“I am the SmartWare sixty-five hundred,” the voice replied. “Are you a guest user? Please state your name. If Mister Jonson provides me with permission, I will set up an internet account for you.”

“Uh, Violet Dare.”

“Very good, Violet Dare,” the voice said. “Mister Jonson, may I set up an account for Ms. Dare?”

“Um, sure.”

“Very good, sir. Ms. Dare, what would you like to research this evening?”

Violet looked at Ben. “Wilbur Wright,” she said, her eyes never leaving his.

“Wilbur Wright, born Millville, Indiana, 1867, died Dayton, Ohio, 1912. Best known for his work with brother Orville Wright to invent practical air travel. Grew up in—”

“Thank you,” Ben said. “That’s enough.”

“Died 1912, Ben,” Violet said. “Did he die the same way he did originally? Or is that just what the official record says now?”

“I have a research question,” Ben said.

“Yes, sir?”

“The Second Civil War of the United States. Started in the 2050s.”

The computer was silent for a long moment. “I have no record of that,” it finally said. “Would you like me to check my archive of fiction of the twenty-first century?”

Ben grinned. “We did it.”

Violet didn’t smile along with Ben. “
I
have a research question,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Edward Vere, Ph.D.”

Another long pause.

Ben felt panic rise in him. Why would their work undo Vere? Vere was a scientist, Vere worked in a secret lab, Vere wasn’t a target, Vere’s death was only due to Claudio, and now Claudio didn’t exist.

“I have no record of Edward Vere, Ph.D.,” the computer said.

Maybe he didn’t go to grad school in this timeline, for some reason. Maybe he got the science bug in the war—

The war that never happened. The war Vere survived.

“Edward Oxford Vere, born 2040 in New Hampshire,” Ben said.

Another pause. “Edward Oxford Vere, born 2040 in Concord, New Hampshire. Died July 4, 2059 in Chicago, Illinois.”

2059? 2059 meant Vere was just a teenager, before he finished college, before he and Wilbur invented time travel together, before
anything
.

But it would have been during the war. He wouldn’t have been in Chicago, not if he’d been in the war, been a soldier, been elsewhere other than whatever happened in Chicago.
But it couldn’t be.

“No, I think that’s the wrong one,” Ben said. His voice quavered, and he sank against the back of the sofa.

This isn’t the right sofa. This one’s the one that was in here before Eddy bought the other one at a flea market, the nicer one. The one with the Victorian scrollwork on the arms. And where is Bodhi? Why isn’t he curled up by the fireplace like he always is?

“That’s the wrong one,” Ben repeated. “Do you have another Edward Vere?”

“Edward de Vere, seventeenth Earl of Oxford, born 1550 in Essex, died 1604. Often speculated to have been the true author of the works attributed to William Shakespeare, though scholars—”

“
No.
”

The computer’s voice ceased. Ben slid to the floor, burying his face in his hands. Violet touched his arm, but he didn’t move.

And Eddy’s the one who told me there was a cat sleeping under the bush in the backyard. Eddy told me about Bodhi, and I took him in.

“My cat’s gone, too,” Ben muttered. He tried to explain, but his throat felt tight.

Violet looked pained. “I have a research question,” she said.

“Yes, Ms. Dare.”

“Edward Vere, the one from New Hampshire. How did he die?”

“Hovercar accident. No fault cited. I have no other information, ma’am. It’s a local police report without charges. Would you like me to read his obituary? It appears in the following Sunday’s
Lake County News Sun
, page seventeen, column six.”

“No, thank you.”

Tears coursed down Ben’s face.

“That’s not okay,” he said. He exhaled and pressed his thumbs against his eyelids, swiping away the moisture. “That’s
so
not okay. The fucking war. The war we stopped? The war actually
saved
Eddy from dying in such a stupid way? That’s, no. No.” He looked up.

Violet pulled him close to her, resting his head on her shoulder. “No, it’s not okay,” she agreed.

“Your dad doesn’t know you.”

“That’s not okay, too, but he’s still here,” she said. “I still have him, he just…it’s different now. He’s happy, though, right? He gets to be with someone who wasn’t brave enough to be with him before.” She drew back, moving so that her eyes were level with his. “But you, oh, my God, talk about
brave
.”

“I couldn’t let him do it anymore,” Ben said. “He took so much from people. He was going to make it so I couldn’t walk in a goddamned building just because I’m not white? No.”

“You did it, you know,” Violet said. “You. Not your research, not your books, not your worries, and not somebody looking for adventure.”

No, not me. It’s never me. I’m not that guy.

“You did it,” Violet went on, “because it was enough. His crazy was enough. Who knows how many people you saved by just standing up to him?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ben noticed a book on the coffee table. He picked it up.
A Short History of American Aeronautics.
Brown cover with a sepia-toned photograph. Two tall, lanky men in tweed strode along a sidewalk together, both of them in dark bowlers, one of them with a moustache.

The clean-shaven one in front was the only one of the two looking at the camera, a fringe of blond hair visible beneath the brim of his hat. Ben opened up the front cover and found an epigraph there.

“I wish to avail myself of all that is already known and then, if possible, add my mite to help on the future worker who will attain final success,” it read. The attribution revealed it as a quote from Wilbur.

Eddy always said you were a show-off.

“This is a new world,” Ben murmured, “but we can’t ever forget.”

Violet’s grip tightened on his shoulder. “We won’t. Everybody else may have, but we won’t forget. We’re in this together.”