Despite our ability to time travel, predicting future trajectories with any success remained inexact. People were simply too unpredictable. The existence of free will would never change, so the Originals had chosen instead to focus on the past as a more viable way to ensure the best possible outcomes for humanity.
“Why are you lecturing me?” Jess tucked her sleek, chin-length black bob behind her ears and glared at me, her brown eyes sharp. She stood shorter than me, like most of the people in Genesis from Asian descent, but that had never affected her intimidation factor.
“I’m not. I’m just saying the cards are for fun. It’s like a game. Don’t be so snotty.”
“Oh, I’m the snotty one? Miss, I’m exempt from the rules because my granddaddy was an Original?”
I ignored her pettiness, mostly because it would piss her off. “What’s your card say?”
She clutched it to her chest. “None of your business.”
Jess stalked back to her table of friends, shredding the pink card on the way and stuffing it into a recycling pit. Her thumb pressed the black button on the front and the contents caught fire and smoldered into ashes. I’d seen the name over her shoulder, anyway. Someone named Gretchen Lillian Morris, 2337-2368.
No life choice, unless it embraced violence or hate, was taboo on Genesis. The Elders seemed to prefer same-sex pairings, actually, because it saved them from a birth. Population control and the two-child recommendation remained a point of silent contention among some, particularly the traditionalists, but no one could argue that it was a potential threat. Genesis was only so big. I wondered if Jess had suspected her True would be a woman.
I pressed the bio tattoo on my left wrist—the triangular Historian seal decorated my right—into the pod and waited while my personal information displayed across the screen. A laser scanned my wrist and the information pod blinked, then whirred. A moment later it spit out my own little pink card. My conversation with Jess had reminded me this was all silly fun and I glanced at it quickly, no longer filled with anything except idle curiosity.
Caesarion Caesar (47 BCE–30 BCE)
To have a True so far removed from the present was also pretty rare. There was a girl, Jess’s friend Peyton, whose True wasn’t scheduled to be born until 6780. We’d spent an afternoon trying to figure out how in the System they’d figured that out, but we still didn’t have a clue. Future Trues were a strange phenomenon, and usually not more than a generation removed since predicting Chosens was impossible.
I read the printed words again—Caesarion Caesar—then folded the card and stuffed it into the back pocket of my leggings. My faux burger waited at the table—pepper jack cheese, no tomatoes—and I took a giant bite and smacked obnoxiously while Analeigh made impatient noises.
“Come on, Kaia. Who is it? Do we know him?”
No one assumed we’d know him, so really she meant did we know of him. And we did.
“Caesarion Caesar.”
Oz’s eyes snapped up at the announcement—his historical interests lay in the ancient world, while mine tended toward revolutionary France. His long fingers squeezed his grilled cheese sandwich so hard a hunk of melty goodness slumped out onto his wrist. “Caesarion. As in, the only son of Julius Caesar and Cleopatra? That’s your True Companion?”
“Aw, that’s kind of sad. His uncle killed him, right?” Analeigh bit her lip and cocked her head to one side, her classic I’m-trying-to-remember pose. Her historical interests were early nineteenth-century America, so the Caesars landed well wide of her comfort zone.
“His adopted brother of sorts,” Oz corrected. “Octavian—Augustus—was actually Julius Caesar’s great-nephew but he was adopted and groomed to be his successor.”
“I guess I missed out on my chance to be a princess, guys. If only I’d been born, um …” I trailed off, attempting fruitlessly to calculate in my head how many years ago Caesarion had died. Or been killed. I shoved more cheeseburger in my face while Analeigh and Sarah laughed.
“Two-thousand five hundred and ninety years ago. Give or take.” Oz wiped the cheese off his hand with a napkin. He didn’t look up as he took another bite of his sandwich.
“I can totally see you as a princess, Kaia,” Sarah giggled. “Your family is as close to royalty as it gets now.”
“Shut up, Sarah.”
“Yeah, you are totally wrong,” Analeigh protested.
“Thank you, Analeigh. You’re a good friend.”
“She’s wrong because you would never wear a dress long enough to be a princess.”
I threw a roasted potato at her face but missed. It slid down the blond waves that hung almost to her waist, then plopped onto her shoulder. She gave me a dirty look and flicked it onto the table, grabbing a cloth napkin to dab at the oil left behind in her hair.
After we settled down, Sarah changed the subject, asking Oz where his observation would take him tomorrow.
“Pearl Harbor,” he replied. “I’m looking forward to it, I suppose.”
I hadn’t been to Pearl Harbor, but I’d seen the holo-files. Only Oz would look forward to watching a bunch of people blown to smithereens.
“Yeah, that should be interesting,” I mocked.
Oz grunted his response, missing or ignoring my sarcasm, and Sarah patted his arm. She leaned over to press a kiss to her boyfriend’s freckled cheek, her fingers teasing the black hair at the nape of his neck. “Leave him alone, Kaia. You know Oz will be happy when his traveling days are over and he can hide out in the Archives all day.”
I loved the Archives at the Academy, too, but not as much as being present at the events. It helped me understand, to pick up on the mood of a thing and not simply the actions. But Oz was … shy, maybe? Focused? Snobby? Either way, he wasn’t big on interacting. He preferred to be alone in the Archives, reflecting on our recordings until his brains slid out of his ears.
“How many rules did you break today, Kaia?” Sarah’s mischievous gaze sparkled. “Should we bust out the Guide when we get back to the room, take bets on your sanction?”
Oz’s serious gaze fell heavy on my face as it burned. Analeigh and Sarah kept giggling, snorting that if Caesar hadn’t been able to hold my attention, who would.