Time's Divide (The Chronos Files Book 3) (11 page)

I open file 4, the Mega Future-Wiki, and start reading the section labeled
2100–2199 (Government):

As the century opened, the U.S. government, like most governments around the world, was still dealing with the repercussions of 2092. Efforts to rebuild damaged alliances—

I pull my eyes away from the screen. Maybe it’s Katherine’s influence, but reading this info feels inherently
wrong
and spoiler-ish, especially when she was adamant that I didn’t need to know about whatever happened in 2092. I’ll wait until I know for certain what Julia is proposing before opening that particular Pandora’s box.

Or maybe my tired brain was just looking for an excuse to drift off. My phone vibrates on the nightstand at a quarter after seven, awakening me from a three-hour nap. Another text from Charlayne, reminding me of our “internship meeting” at nine. Why is she being coy about it now? If anyone is monitoring our communications, her earlier text welcoming me to the Fifth Column pretty much ripped the lid off.

I wonder how much has changed for her in this timeline?

My memories of the Carrington Day barbecue are decidedly dual. Mostly I remember talking to Charlayne and Dr. Tilson, who was enraged to learn that his retirement party was being held in Cyrist Central. But there’s a tiny part of my brain that insists we never went to that barbecue.

The same goes for my first day of school. I remember one version where Charlayne and I talked between classes and at lunch. And another where I saw Charlayne hanging out on the periphery of Eve’s little clique, chatting with the girls she called the Evelettes.

Which version does Charlayne remember? The changes that resulted in the Fifth Column seem to have occurred gradually, over decades, so I don’t see how she can remember me at all unless she’s been under a CHRONOS field.

The only thing I know for sure is that I’m not going to get answers sitting here. I splash some water on my face and find some slightly less wrinkled clothes.

I’m digging through my drawer for matching socks when I feel the unmistakable gut punch of a time shift. I clutch the edge of the drawer as I go down. There’s a faint snap, and the drawer comes with me, socks raining down around my head.

The room finally stops spinning, and I no longer feel like I’m going to vomit all over the carpet. I push myself up and lean back against the side of the bed.

This shift packed a wallop bigger than the others, even when I wasn’t under the CHRONOS field. What could have triggered a time shift that massive?

“Kate?” Connor raps on the door. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Did you feel it?”

“A twinge. I’d have passed it off as a bad breakfast burrito, but it hit Katherine like a Mack truck. I got her to lie down, told her I’d come check on you.”

I pull myself up and open the door. “I’m better, but, yeah, that was fierce.” My eyes slide reluctantly toward the library. “I’m not even sure I want to know what caused it.”

Unfortunately, my wish for blissful ignorance is granted. An hour later, we still don’t know. Even Connor’s automated program that tracks discrepancies between history and news online and data points from the protected files here in the library can’t find any sort of anomaly.

Katherine pushes away from the computer, rubbing her eyes. “The only logical conclusion is that the impact of whatever jolted the timeline is delayed. The course of action has been set, but the actual changes aren’t showing up yet.”

“How . . . is that possible? I mean, how could we feel it if the shift was triggered by changes that haven’t happened yet?”

“Because the sequence of events has been set in motion. What we felt was the . . .” She stops, acting like she’s searching for a word, then looks at Connor with a wry smile. “Care to help me out?”

“I’ll try,” he says. “What we felt was our time train jumping the tracks. Maybe jumping several tracks. They’re all heading in the same direction, more or less. Only, the track we’re currently on has a cement wall somewhere down the line. We haven’t hit the wall yet, we can’t even see the wall, but the CHRONOS keys detected the disturbance. That’s why we felt the shift . . . why Kiernan, for example, will probably have felt it at the same time, from our perspective, even though he’s in 1905 or whenever. Does that make sense?”

I say no at the same moment Katherine is saying yes, and they both turn to look at me.

“Well, it
doesn’t
make sense! I’ll take Connor’s word for it, but I’m not going to lie and say I understand it. So . . . you’re saying we need to find a way to stop the train before it hits that wall?”

“Well, no,” Katherine says. “You can’t
stop
time. It’s going to keep right on rolling. You simply have to push the train back onto the correct track.”

Simply?

∞8∞

F
IFTH
C
OLUMN
HQ

September 11, 9:00 a.m.

Charlayne startles when I blink in, and then she smiles. It’s more of a nice-to-meet-you smile than an I’m-glad-you’re-back, so there’s one answer right off the bat. Charlayne wasn’t under a CHRONOS field, which means we’ll be starting from square one. Again.

“You’re Kate, right?” Charlayne rolls her brown eyes, looking embarrassed. “Okay, that was dumb. Of
course
you’re Kate. You just caught me off guard. I’ve only seen that appearing-out-of-nowhere thing once before when Max . . . oh, crap.” She lowers her voice. “Don’t tell him I told you that, okay? I don’t think I was supposed to see, and he’s . . . well . . .” She smiles and sighs. “I don’t want Max mad at me.”

I can’t help but smile back. This Charlayne doesn’t even know me, and it still took her less than ten seconds to spill about some guy she’s crushing on. It’s comforting that certain things do remain the same in any timeline.

“Julia was supposed to meet you, but something came up. I’m Charlayne.” She sticks out her hand, with the pink lotus tattoo still on the back. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, however, so maybe this iteration is a bit closer to my former best friend.

When I let go of her hand, she uses it to face-palm. “And that was equally dumb. I’ve read your entire file, so I know you already know me—well, at least the me from BFC.”

“It’s okay. I’m getting kind of used to people forgetting me. What’s BFC?”

“Before Fifth Column. That’s what Ben calls it. And then there’s BCI—Before Cyrist International—but even Julia can’t remember that timeline.”

“Ben? Do you mean Bensen?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. You know Ben, too? That wasn’t in the file.”

“You introduced us in the last timeline. At Briar Hill.”

“Okay. I’ll update that. And . . . could you maybe not let Ben know I mentioned Max? I’m not
really
interested in him, it’s just that he’s hot, you know?”

I nod, even though Max doesn’t fit my definition of
hot
. Charlayne seems to need a little more assurance than a nod, however, because she’s giving me an imploring look.

“Max is practically married, and anyway, I love Ben way too much to want him feeling jealous.”

I try to keep my mouth closed, but it takes a conscious effort, because I’m having a hard time processing the idea of Charlayne and Bensen as a couple. I mean, I don’t think it’s a bad thing. In fact, Charlayne’s tendency to be completely superficial in her choice of boyfriends—including the ones she tried to select for me—was one of the few things I found annoying. But even if it was a flaw, it was
her
flaw, something I learned to expect. Part of the package. The concept of a Charlayne who’s in love with a nice, smart, sweet, but absolutely not-hot guy will take some getting used to.

My slightly stunned expression clearly has Charlayne worried, so I try to reassure her. “I won’t tell. There’s no harm in looking, right? But shouldn’t you and Ben be at school?”

Technically, I should be at school, too, but they don’t have a CHRONOS key that will let them jump back and make up the days they’ve missed if and when life returns to normal.

“Um . . . this takes priority.” Her voice goes up at the end, almost like it’s a question, and she gives me an incredulous look. “We’ve all been preparing for this day for a very long time.”

Okay. I really don’t know what to say to that, so I just give her a weak smile and follow as she begins to work her way through a maze of empty cubicles toward the back of the room.

“The others are waiting in conference room four. Do you want something to drink before we join them? Soda, water? The file said you like coffee, too, but I don’t think you’d like the stuff they have here. It’s awful.”

“If you have a Diet—”

“Dr Pepper?” Charlayne asks with a bright smile.

“Yes. Was that in my file, too?” I try to sound like I’m mildly curious rather than mildly creeped out, but she looks a little apologetic, so I must have failed.

“I’m sorry. This must be really strange for you. Do you still want the soda?”

“Sure.”

We walk through several more rows of cubicles toward a break room at the back. Charlayne opens the fridge, grabs my soda and a bottle of water for herself, and points back to the exit where a carved Cyrist symbol hangs just above the door. It’s an odd hybrid of an ankh and a cross, with a lotus flower in the middle and an infinity sign tacked on for good measure.

Bad things tend to happen to me in buildings displaying that symbol.

“Exactly where are we, Charlayne? Max just gave me the coordinates. I’m not even sure what city.”

“Officially these are the offices of the Cyrist Interfaith Alliance.” She opens the break room door and waits for me to go through. “Ben calls it Langley. Get it—CIA? But we’re actually near Silver Spring. Ben and I have internships this semester, so the school is pretty forgiving about missed classes.”

I look around the cubicles as we walk by, most of them barren aside from a stray Post-it note or thumbtack stuck in the dividing wall. “The place looks abandoned.”

“Yeah. Most workers were reassigned a while back. An assistant comes in to handle some of Julia’s correspondence a few days a week—she and Julia have offices down from the break room. The Fifth Column only meets on the days the assistant isn’t here. And we’ll have to find a new place soon. The lease is up in two months. Cyrists aren’t really doing that much interfaith alliancing right now,” she adds wryly. “Is
alliancing
a word?”

“I don’t think so.”

We’re at the conference room now, so I don’t have time to ask anything else. There are six people inside, gathered around a long table. Three faces aren’t familiar. A stout man with glasses and a receding hairline is facing the wall. Next to him is a slightly built African American man wearing a bow tie. They’re both in suits, as is the aging blonde across the table, although hers isn’t the typical office gray. It’s a horrid shade of electric blue that hurts my eyes. A faded lotus tattoo decorates the back of her hand. She’s checking something on her phone and wears an expression that says she has far more important places to be.

I recognize the two people closest to the door—Charlayne’s more-than-just-friend Bensen and Max.

Max looks like he’s had a rough night. He’s in crumpled clothes and doesn’t appear to have slept well. His gaze wanders down to my chest and then back up to my eyes. There’s absolutely nothing sexual in it—I’m pretty sure he’s looking for the medallion, not taking in the scenery. And then I realize why. Unlike the others in the room, Max would have felt the “train derailment,” too.

I also recognize the man walking toward me, although I’m surprised to see him
walking
. It’s Dr. Tilson, former Briar Hill science teacher. He was in a wheelchair last time I saw him, but he’s using forearm crutches now, and moving fairly well. Tilson is definitely not a member of the Cyrist fan club, so I’m a bit surprised to see him in a building they seem to own.

“Miss Keller,” he says, extending his hand. “Or do you go by Pierce-Keller?”

“Kate will be fine, Dr. Tilson.”

“Very well. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” I give him a puzzled smile in return, because I’m not sure why he added the word
again
. Trey said Tilson doesn’t remember meeting us at the barbecue. “I’d hoped young Mr. Coleman could join us this morning, too, but his father said he was called out of town on a personal matter. Can I count on you to fill him in—discreetly, of course—when he returns?”

Tilson seems different as well. His speech is still formal, but he’s smiling, and the grumpy old man vibe is missing.

“Yes, sir,” I tell him. “I’d be happy to.”

“Thank you. I believe Mr. Raji has reserved seats for you.”

Charlayne tugs on my sleeve, and I follow her to the empty chairs next to Bensen. I take the seat at the end, facing Tilson, who’s busy connecting a laptop to a projector.

I put my soda, the tablet, and the diary on the table in front of me. Max’s eyebrows shoot up and he shakes his head.

My first thought is that he’s saying I’m not supposed to have a drink in here. There actually
is
a sign above the whiteboard that reads
No Food or Drink
, but the blond woman next to him has a Dean & Deluca travel mug and a mostly eaten pastry in front of her, so that rule is obviously being ignored.

Then I realize he’s worried about the diary. What did he think I was going to do—slide it across the table and say thanks for slipping me secret information? Like all CHRONOS diaries, it appears to be nothing more than an old book, and it’s stacked under the tablet. No one would give it a second glance. But I pull it into my lap and shoot Max an are-you-happy-now look. Apparently he isn’t. He just continues to glare at me, so I purposefully turn my attention to the other end of the table.

The wall behind Tilson lights up. He slides his chair to the left so that his head isn’t blocking the screen.

I lean toward Charlayne and whisper, “Are we waiting for Julia?”

“She’s not coming. We’ll probably see her later.”

“Who is the woman next to Max?”

“Selene Ellicott,” she whispers back. “Senator.”

“She’s also Cyrist—she has the tattoo.”

Charlayne gives me a reproachful smile and holds up her own hand. Her tattoo is fresher, the pink more vivid than the one on Ellicott’s hand. It also looks slightly different than before, although I can’t place what’s changed. “We’re all Cyrists.
New
Cyrist, but still—”

A Cyrist is a Cyrist is a Cyrist.
I don’t actually say what I’m thinking, however, both because I don’t want to insult Charlayne and because I realize it’s probably not true anymore. And maybe it was never entirely true. As Kiernan noted back in Georgia, people joined the Cyrists for many different reasons.

“Can everyone see? And hear?” Tilson asks in a voice that seems too loud for such a small room.

There are general noises of consensus, and then Julia speaks from Tilson’s laptop. “We’re fine here.”

Ah. So she’s being conferenced in.

The image Tilson projects onto the wall behind him looks like a Koosh Ball, with multicolored spokes coming out from the core. Apparently we’re diving straight into the briefing with no introductions.

“This is what we’re up against,” he says. “There’s some similarity to H5N1, which some of you may know better as the avian flu, but also some rather striking differences. I won’t pretend I fully understand how it works. My epidemiologist colleague understands a bit more, but this isn’t a naturally occurring virus. It was manufactured to be highly lethal and spread quickly through the water supply or through contact with bodily fluids. Once inside a host, it mutates rapidly. There is a ninety-seven percent infection rate, and in fifty percent of the test subjects it shifted to airborne transmission—that is, via sneezing and coughing—within two days.”

He pauses a moment to let that sink in. “It has excellent potential as a weaponized virus because in its original, unmutated form, it’s not particularly dangerous, assuming it’s handled with care. The survival time outside of a host is relatively short—an hour at most on dry surfaces. A high concentration of bleach or other medical-strength disinfectant can kill it. And the survivor sample suggests it’s preventable by vaccination with no obvious adverse effects.”

Just looking at the thing causes a tight fist to clench around my stomach. I’m hesitant to interrupt him, but to the best of my knowledge, the water sample I brought back from Six Bridges is in a refrigerated safe at Katherine’s house. Connor didn’t say anything about giving it to Tilson. And I have no clue what he means by
survivor sample
.

“Excuse me, Dr. Tilson, but . . . how did you get these samples?”

There’s a short pause, and then Julia answers via the computer, “That hasn’t happened for her yet.”

“Oh.” Tilson looks at me apologetically. “Apparently we have a scheduling issue. I’ll sort it out with you afterward.”

Well, at least that explains how he knew me.

He clicks to move on to the next slide, and the fist that was clenching my stomach pulls back and punches it. The image on the screen is the newspaper photo of Six Bridges, larger than I’ve seen it before because it’s being projected. The kid’s arm hanging over the edge of the pew is almost life-sized. I flash back to Kiernan’s words as Jackson and Vernon ran down the path to the chapel.
Ghosts, think of them as ghosts
.

Doing that isn’t any easier now than it was then. And I’m clearly not alone in my reaction to the photo. The others at the table look sickened, and some avert their eyes from the screen at the sight of dozens of corpses, the skin strangely mottled and the bodies emaciated, almost like someone squeezed them dry.

“This is what the virus does. Most subjects died within a day. This image was taken by local authorities in 1911.”

I want to ask where he got the picture, but I already know—Future-Me will give it to him along with the samples.

A voice from the computer asks, “How do we know this was the result of the virus?”

Tilson answers, “The sample was taken from the village well.”

He clicks again, and I brace for another image, but it’s a map, one that I recognize as the regional map for Cyrist International. It’s divided into six sections: North America, Latin America, Europe, Africa, East Asia, and SoCeAsia, which must mean South Central Asia. A major city in each area is designated with a star and the name of the regional Templar. The North American star is over DC and the name next to it is Franklin Randall. That’s odd—I thought Patrick Conwell was the regional Templar? I don’t recognize any of the other names, although I remember Kiernan mentioning someone named Edna, and there’s an Edna Sowah listed by the star near the Horn of Africa.

“Our working assumption,” Tilson says, “is that Cyrist operatives use the six regional headquarters as distribution points to disseminate both the virus and the vaccine to the various national and local temples. All members have been vaccinated—”