Текст книги "Return Once More"
Автор книги: Trisha Leigh
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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For all of the humans who, in ways big and small, have had the desire, drive, imagination, foresight, and intelligence to change the world for the better. And for all of the humans whose suffering, deaths, humiliations, and failure have managed to do the same.
May we all humbly try to make sure none are forgotten, and that no sacrifice has been made in vain.
“Like the sun and moon, they end but to begin anew; like the four seasons, they pass away to return once more.”
—Sun Tzu
Chapter One
Rome , Italy , Earth Before—44 BCE (Before Common Era)
The portico at the Theatre of Pompey looked exactly as it did in the holo-files back on Genesis. As comforting as that fact was for a girl over twenty-five hundred years out of her element, even the real-time, life-size recordings in the Archives couldn’t prepare us for everything.
They couldn’t steep me in the scent of Rome. We’d been in the streets earlier today, trailing the subject of today’s assignment as he trekked from his home to the theatre in the city’s center for the last time. The ancient city stunk like humanity. Standing water. Penned animals awaiting sacrifice and the tantalizing, sweet scent of fruit on carts, spicy meats cooking over open flames. The occasional whiff of perfumed body and supple leather underscored the entire melody.
Inside the theatre, lush portico gardens toppled the sweet scents of myriad flowers into the afternoon. They tripped over one another, tangled and heady, as they washed the outer edge of the curia in the scent of spring. The invisible lenses of my standard issue, black-framed glasses separated and identified them—narcissi and crocus, roses and oleander—before I dismissed the information with a practiced flick of the eye. Most of the time it was nice to have the details so available, but others … the influx of information made it hard to simply soak in the experience.
We were here to observe and record the death of Julius Caesar, an event that shifted Rome from a republic into an empire—a moment that had significant impact on the history of the Western world. The chip in my glasses recorded everything in my field of vision—every moment, every glance, every word—even the ones that had gone unnoticed before the ability to travel through time had been discovered. The ones that had been forgotten, even by the people strolling along the promenade here tonight.
Even by the men plotting murder inside the curia.
Like all influential historical events, the death of Gaius Julius Caesar had been well documented by previous Historians, thus the holo-files. We apprentices cut our teeth on events that had been observed and recorded by at least ten different fully certified Historians, after which we’d spend an unbelievable number of hours reflecting on each of our recordings—how the event affected human history, whether it had been one of the moments we wanted to repeat or one that had put us on the path to the irreversible destruction that launched us into space in 2510 CE. Or, 1 NE.
The New Era. My era.
Once the Elders trusted us not to miss anything, and to be able to properly extrapolate historical impact, they’d turn us more or less loose. That day couldn’t come soon enough.
A few people wandered the gardens, some alone, others with arms linked through elbows. Their flowing garments in solid, bright colors made a pleasant addition to the paths and foliage, to the draped, golden cloths above that lent the space a tented feeling. None of them had a thought in their head about time travel. About the cascade of consequences that stemmed from today’s events, ones that brought us back here from the year 2560.
A tap on my shoulder refocused my attention. Every muscle in my body went rigid, and I was half-scared an actual Roman senator was about to ask who in the name of Jupiter I was, and half-sure I was about to get busted by our trip overseer for wandering off the path of our assignment. Again.
But it’s just Analeigh. Glasses invisible on her face, long blond waves pinned up and covered by a short, brown wig, wearing a light tunica and draped in a wool toga, but Analeigh all the same.
“Kaia. You’re not supposed to be in here.” My best friend spoke softly in my mind without her lips so much as twitching.
“Isn’t it beautiful, though?” I replied aloud in Latin, the language of the plebeians—the commoners—here in Rome.
She made a face at my easy use of the unfamiliar language. Even with the help of the bio tattoos threaded into our brain stems with intricate filament circuitry, she struggled with language. It’s the reason she used a similar tattoo at her throat, woven through her vocal cords, to communicate with me silently even though we rarely used them back home.
Too easy to eavesdrop when every Historian Apprentice has the same enhancements.
“They’re about to start the final sacrifice. It’s on our checklist,” she bumbled quietly in Greek, the easier of the two local languages, for her.
I didn’t argue, following as she turned from the portico’s doorway and stepped across the walkway to the mostly enclosed curia. The stone structure was constructed in a semicircle, with a half-dozen steps leading up to a smattering of wide, stone seats meant for the senators and their meetings.
We lingered near one of the large, grooved columns, a spot we’d chosen during our pre-trip research; the people in the room were all upper-class senators, most of them friends. There were strangers among their ranks for the first time, since Julius Caesar had recently seen fit to add non-Romans, nonelite—and even foreigners—to the group, but the risk of being noticed inside remained too high.
We blended out here, where the priests and augers kept trying for favorable omens. There were stragglers from the markets, the curious, servants and apprentices, sons and the people performing the sacrifices and rites. We would be close enough to record the assignment. That was the plan, anyway, but no amount of preparation ever kept my heart rate normal or my eyes from ferreting out the rest of our group from among the crowd, just to check.
Our overseer, Maude Gatling, and the third apprentice on this trip, Sarah Beckwith, stood near a column on the opposite side of the curia. Maude’s crinkled features lent credence to her hunched-over posture, but Sarah looked a little nauseous—and as odd as Analeigh did with brown hair. They could have come to ancient Rome as blondes, but not if they wanted to go unnoticed, which was our foremost goal. My own chestnut waves blended perfectly with the majority of women’s tresses we glimpsed on the streets, but women at the theatre? There were none.
March in Rome was a cool eighteen degrees Celsius. The woolen garb kept me warm enough, at least down to my calves, even though it itched like crazy. The soft leather shoes had started to chafe blisters on our stroll through the city, but the bleat of a terrified animal erased my focus on the slight discomfort.
A group of priests slit the throat of a white goat under a makeshift tent while augurs and a few of the senators looked on, desperate for a sign that today’s meeting should take place unhindered. The dying animal stopped struggling in the space of a few breaths, accepting its fate. As much as I wanted to look away as they began rooting through its entrails looking for a sign from their gods, the importance of my assignment held my gaze steady. The glasses could only record what I saw, and as a Historian, that was my job.
Research. Record. Reflect.
A flock of crows, black smudges against the blue sky, swept in from the left side of the city. The crowd gasped as the bio-tat wired into my brain fed me information about ancient Roman superstition. That the birds were crows bode badly enough for the day’s events, but the fact that they flocked from the left? Worse than bad.
The Latin word for left was sinistra. Sinister.
Interesting and sort of relevant, but I pushed the rest of the information away after a quick sift through, anxious to create my own observations. The reflections required new information, nothing obvious, and after fifty years, that required a sharp eye.
I wish they took us to more positive events, ones that highlighted the goodness of people, but those were few and far between during our apprenticeship. The time I spent looking for the joy and beauty was wasted as far as the Elders were concerned.
It wasn’t part of the assignment here, no matter how pretty the gardens were, so I refocused on Gaius Julius Caesar. The genius military man and visionary, who tried his best to change Rome for the better, strode up to confer with the augurs and priests. His black eyes, set against weathered skin and patrician features, revealed a sharp, probing intelligence. They belonged to a man who missed nothing, and common sense insisted that he must have confronted plots against his life on nights before this one.
But then, he strode across battlefields in foreign lands, stood strong in the face of enemies with drawn weapons. Today, his friends concealed sharpened blades underneath their loose, flowing togas. Or at least, men he believed to be friends.
Even so, the suspicion hung about. Could he have known? Suspected? Believed every last bad omen given to him in the previous days and walked in here tonight anyway?
But, why?
Before I could chase that rabbit down its hole, Brutus—Marcus Junius Brutus—strode up to his friend and placed a hand on his shoulder. They held a terse conversation in a tone too low to be overheard, which was unfortunate. Historical documents suggested Caesar had, for the second time today, allowed himself to be talked into taking his seat inside the curia and beginning the senatorial session, despite signs that should have discouraged him.
But we’re here because historical documents can’t always be trusted. They were written by people invested in the interpretation of the events of their time where as we, almost three thousand years removed, wanted only to understand the truth and its consequences.
Whatever Brutus said, the two of them turned their backs on the priests and made their way inside the building. Analeigh tensed at my side, her sweaty palm sliding into mine as we stand witness to what’s about to happen.
Across the exedra, the lines of horror on Sarah’s face made her stick out like a sore thumb, at least to me, but no one else seemed to notice. All eyes were on Caesar, and the toga-clad men pressing closer and closer as he climbed the stone steps to his seat of honor.
He was a god among men. A Caesar. The first of his kind, and the men about to murder him only wanted to preserve life the way it had been for centuries. Save the Republic from a man they saw as a power-hungry tyrant without the best interest of their beloved Rome at heart.
Or so history would have us believe. Now, searching their faces for righteous indignation, I glimpsed apprehension and fear. Anxiety. Hints of manic glee. History has judged them, both immediately and in the intervening decades, and most of it landed them in the asshole camp. I mean, they stabbed their best friend in the back. Even if he needed to die for the good of the Republic, which remained a judgment call, they pretended to be his friends. Not cool.
I cast a glance at Analeigh. “If I ever decide you need to die for, you know, valid reasons I promise to give you the chance to defend yourself.”
It took a split second for her bio-tat to render the translation, and then her eyes bugged out. “Or maybe give me the chance to run away?” she hissed back.
“Sure. Or that.”
Her head whipped back toward the assignment, her jaw tight as though it could ward off the bloody horror we both felt coming. In fact, it didn’t seem possible for a man so adept at warfare that he was more legend than mortal to sit in that chair, unaware of the suffocating tension spilling out of the curia and into the courtyard. It made me think again that something felt off. Too convenient.
A man stepped forward, draped in the same off-white, purple-striped toga as the rest of the room. A senator of Rome, a nobleman. My brain stem tat spit out the answer into my mind before the question fully formed—Tillius Cimber.
My heart climbed into my throat, lungs struggling with oxygen. It was happening.
“You were going to consider my petition to return my brother from exile,” he said, too loudly. The words vibrated on the taut strands of anxiety in the air, bounding off the stone walls and crashing into my ears, easily translated by my tattoo.
It was hard not to wince, but that would shake my face. I’d been distracted enough today, wandering into the portico, and my tendency to be sidetracked did not endear me to the overseers or our Elders. My family had endured enough disgrace in the past few years without my adding to it by being a space cadet. I was two Level-1 sanctions away from the Elders notifying my parents. After what happened with my brother, they might die from shame.
“I’m still considering it,” Caesar replied, his tone dismissive.
My lungs ached with unspent air. They struggled to call out, to warn him. Policy forbade any interaction, of course, and the brain stem tat did more than provide me with handy dandy information—it insisted I follow contemporary custom. It saved me a ton of studying, but the downside meant occasionally losing control of my own limbs. It had forced me into an absurd curtsy on more than one occasion, once nearly toppling my giant wig right onto Marie Antoinette’s feet at a ball.
There was no way to change the scene that began to unfold in front of us, anyway. No way to nudge it a different direction without setting off unknown effects that might reach all the way to Genesis in 2560. I squeezed Analeigh’s hand tighter as Caesar shook off Cimber.
He barely took a step before another senator, Casca, stabbed him square in the neck, the blade sinking all the way to the hilt.
The almost comical surprise on his face slid quickly toward resignation as Brutus attacked him next, his blade strong and true as it sunk into his old friend’s heart. The betrayal in Caesar’s eyes sent a sizzling chill down my spine, but no words passed his lips. He did not single Brutus out as more important than the others, despite the infamous line in Shakespeare’s version of these tragic events.
In fact, though he struggled and fought, Gaius Julius Caesar spoke not one more word as nearly sixty grown men surrounded him with daggers, each intent on taking their part of the blame—or the credit—by plunging their own weapon into flesh.
Sarah’s face turned pale, chalky, as the scene descended into a melee. Men stabbed each other instead of their target. Their leather shoes slipped in crimson puddles dotting the floor, more than one of them slipped, and Caesar disappeared inside a crowd of thrusting blades. The coppery, slick odor of spilled blood clogged the air, coated my tongue. I swallowed, and it stuck to my throat.
It seemed like it went on forever, but in reality, he bled out in mere minutes. Just a man, after all. Not a god.
With the last bit of his strength Julius Caesar pulled his toga up to hide his face, clinging to the final shred of his dignity as his last breath whispered past his lips. The curia stood silent but for the ragged breaths of the betrayers. There were onlookers other than the four of us, but no one moved. Not at first.
The dagger clattered from Brutus’s bloody hand, hitting the stone floor. “Sic semper tyrannus,” he muttered, staring down at Caesar’s bloodied body.
Thus always to tyrants.
The senators fled, leaving footprints in the pool of sticky blood surrounding their leader, their Caesar. Apparently planning to murder one’s friend was more appealing than the execution. Bunch of lily-livered hacks.
Analeigh tugged on my arm, signaling that I had, once again, missed my cue. “Let’s go.”
Everyone else had run the opposite direction of the portico, brushing past us into the streets to spread the news to the masses, who loved Caesar. Revered him, craved his leadership. His death would set off a series of events we would spend the next month discussing with various Elders back home.
Right now, we needed to leave Earth Before.
The scent of the blooming roses tried and failed to dislodge the taste of blood from my mouth. We met Sarah and Maude in the empty, quiet amphitheater and picked our way together into the shadows provided by a copse of plane trees. It was the same secluded spot we’d arrived in this morning, just in time to hurry to Caesar’s home and overhear Brutus goading him into ignoring his wife’s bad dreams—dreams of holding her husband’s broken, bleeding body, if she was to be believed—in favor of joining the senators in the city.
On the way to Pompey’s theatre, a servant handed Caesar a scroll that, according to contemporary sources, informed him of this plot to kill him. He never read it. For the first time since we began studying this event in detail, his fate seemed sad as opposed to simply unnecessary. He would not be the last visionary intent on changing a place for the better to be thwarted by men who had much to gain by leaving the world the way it was.
Maude extended her arm as the breeze kicked up, tearing at the loose hem of my toga. A metal cuff decorated with a series of dials and lights slid from her elbow to her wrist and she didn’t waste any time pressing a tiny button. Her thin, colorless lips lowered to the invisible microphone. “Return.”
A bluish haze surrounded the four of us, buzzing like a swarm of angry wasps and flickering like the lights in the underground apocalypse bunker we’d observed a few months ago. Four red dots on her cuff turned to green one at a time, and when the last light changed, the final days of republican Rome disappeared.
*
Sanchi, Amalgam of Genesis—50 NE (New Era)
“Home sweet home,” Analeigh drawled as our group of four arrived back in the small air lock we’d departed from several hours previously.
Ever since we’d spent an afternoon observing the antebellum American South, Analeigh had been obsessed with perfecting her accent. The bio-tats would supply one if she asked, but she found exaggerating it more amusing.
I did, too. It never failed to make me giggle. “Yes, although most people wouldn’t call the Academy air lock sweet. It stinks of sweat and feet.”
She shrugged with a smile. Sanchi was home for all of us, even if Analeigh and I were the only two out of our class of seven born on this planet, and I supposed that made it sweet, in its way. The rest came from nearby planets in Genesis, the solar system adopted by humanity over a generation ago.
Earth Before hadn’t blown up or disappeared or anything so dramatic. The environment had simply reclaimed the majority of land, and as medicine evolved, so did disease. There had been too many people fighting over declining resources, more wars than peace, and a host of other issues that forced those who remained to seek out a new home.
Now, the Historians strove to ensure those things didn’t happen a second time.
The four of us stripped off our dust-covered woolen tunics and togas, placing them in a drawer that extended to receive them, then retracted. Sarah and Analeigh dumped their wigs, too, and the dust in the room made us all cough before the ventilation system kicked on and recycled the oxygen mixture. Everything would be inspected for bacteria and other contagions, and if cleared, returned to the wardrobe closet. Sometimes we had to shower before the air lock let us out, but not often. We allowed a sharp metal protrusion to prick our fingers in quick succession, drawing blood that would also be analyzed for infections or biohazards.
There was nothing to do until the doors unlocked except stare at one another. Black leggings and hip-length black tank tops made of a lightweight Kevlar blend covered our bodies as we perched on stainless steel benches that always transferred a chill, no matter how many times maintenance promised the air lock temperature was “comfortable.”
“How do you feel you did?” Maude rose and paced the small area, her question mechanical. More habit than anything.
She and her twin sister Minnie weren’t my favorite overseers. They smelled like old clothes and some kind of alcohol, and neither of them paid enough attention to us while we were observing. They’d been to the same time and place on countless trips, so maybe I shouldn’t be so judgy, especially given that I often struggled to pay attention even the first time.
I stared at the Historian insignia stamped on the ruddy flesh inside Maude’s right wrist, trying to appear as though I wasn’t avoiding her gaze.
Speculamini. Memorate. Meditamini. In the English: Observe. Record. Reflect.
The words ran along the outside lines of a triangle and decorated not only the inside of our right wrists, but also the breasts of our Historian uniforms and the cloaks we wore on the colder trips.
When none of us answered, she turned her attention on me. “Kaia Vespasian. Answer.”
“I feel confident I’ll get into trouble when my chip is uploaded.”
Maude removed her glasses, black rimmed now that we were home, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why this time?”
Nerves danced in my stomach. I had to try harder, even though the main events never interested me the most. The ways the major historical episodes affected the loved ones, the children, the enemies, the world around them … that’s what I loved to decipher. In a few years, once my training was complete, I would be allowed to choose my subjects. But not until then.
“I wanted to see the gardens.”
In truth, the couples had drawn my attention. I couldn’t tell Maude that, though.
“Until you’re certified, you’ll see what we tell you to see. Even after that, I doubt you’ll be able to convince the Elders that studying flowers and trees is a worthy use of our many privileges. As always, work on your focus.”
I nodded, looking down at my toes until I felt her gaze slide to someone else.
“Sarah Beckwith? Analeigh Frank?”
My friends answered automatically, describing details of the assassination we had been instructed to capture that I had missed. I really did need to pay more attention. Every child in Genesis took aptitude tests that determined our course of study, and they were never wrong. I knew I belonged at the Historian Academy, not in Agriculture, or Genetics, or any other school.
This had become my home, and despite my struggle to do as instructed on occasion, I loved my studies. Loved the purpose and dedication of the Historians, what we stand for, what we can accomplish. I was lucky to be here at all, after what my brother had pulled. Citizens of Genesis were exiled for only the gravest of infractions, and often their families were sentenced along with them. Jonah’s fate should have been all the encouragement necessary to behave, but a desire to witness those special moments convinced me to break the rules far more often than was wise.
But the more infractions on my record, the less likely I’d be granted the specialty of my choosing after certifications, and that wasn’t part of the plan.
My left arm dangled unadorned but a gleaming metal loop circled Maude’s, drawing my gaze. I dreamed of a transport cuff of my own, aching for the freedom it represented. We’d been largely confined to the Academy since we were ten, nearly seven years now. For all of the times and places I’d visited in the past, in the present I’d never left Sanchi. Genesis wasn’t huge, but there were seven small planets and several uninhabited moons. The thought of planet bouncing and freedom brought my brother to mind for the second time in as many hours, but I banished the thought of his name and the image of his face with a frown.
Stay gone, Jonah.
I’m not sure if the silent, fervent wish is because of my anger with him or because he’d be executed should he show his face here again.
Right then, all I knew for sure is that getting out of this decontamination air lock would be enough freedom for me. It usually took less than twenty minutes for computers to analyze our vitals and clothes to make sure we didn’t bring back anything undesirable, while the tattoos etched deep into the skin over our brain stems, wrists, and throats uploaded all the bio information they needed.
The hollow feeling in my stomach said it had to be close to dinnertime. “What time is it?”
Analeigh rolled her eyes, and Sarah laughed.
“I know, I know, I always forget my watch. Is it time for dinner?”
“Yes,” Sarah answered, shaking her short, dirty-blond hair in an attempt to lose the wig crease.
“You have a pass tonight for a home visit, right? For your birthday?” Analeigh asked.
Of course. My birthday.
The reminder that tonight meant dinner with my parents cracked a grin across my face. I missed them more since Jonah had left the Academy, and the thought of seeing them relieved some of the stress over another botched assignment. “Yep.”
“And we’re still going to Stars tomorrow, right? For your friend celebration?” Analeigh’s eyes sparkled with anticipation.
“I can’t believe the Elders gave you two passes for one week. Must be nice to be from an Original family,” Sarah commented, her perfectly formed eyebrows creased together.
My finger smoothed my unruly brows in response. I hadn’t been to the grooming booth in weeks; I just couldn’t find the time to care as often as my friends. I shrugged. “My parents put in a request. It’s not just my grandfather. I think it’s also, you know … Jonah.”
Analeigh’s lips pressed together at the mention of my rogue brother, and Sarah avoided my gaze. Sarah didn’t voice her curiosity, and Analeigh kept silent about her disapproval, both aware that I preferred not to talk about it. We all knew my grandfather’s status in the scientific community curried favors, regardless of Jonah’s decisions. He’d been one of the Original scientists whose work had ensured the survival of selected families from Earth Before, and he’d founded the Historians besides. If my parents wanted me home for dinner tonight, then I’d be home for dinner tonight.
“Okay, well. We’ll see you for study session, then?” Analeigh asked, quieter now.
“Yes. My pass is only until eight.”
Our lights-out alarm came at ten every night, which gave us a couple of hours for a certification review. We didn’t have to go to sleep then or anything, but none of the electronics worked so most of us did. The observations and the traveling wore us out.
A series of clicks followed by a hiss of air indicated we’d been declared uncontaminated and allowed back into the Historian Academy. Maude exited first, probably thrilled to not have to listen to us anymore. Analeigh and Sarah raced ahead, chattering about our plans for tomorrow night.
We typically didn’t get passes more than once a month, but birthday celebrations were special, my seventeenth birthday even more so. It meant that tomorrow night I could find out the name of my True Companion—the one person ever born, or who would ever be born, who was made to love me.
I only had to decide if I wanted to know.
