Frustration balled a knot under the tat in the back of my neck and I rolled it from side to side, trying to stretch out my thoughts. I was missing something. A connection between Oz and Jonah, the only two people who had the hubris—or the knowledge—to change the past. A link between Oz and the Elders, or Jonah and the Elders—not to mention whatever had caused my brother to run.
I absently tapped on the link under the Gatling gun, reviewing a quick-and-dirty history of the world’s first machine gun prototype. It had led to the Maxim machine gun and finally the gangster-favored Tommy gun, which had all culminated in weapons sophisticated enough to take out everyone in this Academy in under two minutes, provided we were all in the same room. Once the guns of the late twenty-fourth century came into play—the models powerful enough to bang through walls made of metal or plaster, or anything really—they could take us all out in under three minutes, even spread out.
If Oz had also made alterations on the Silk Road, or in Canada, how long before changes started showing up in the Archives? Before the descendants of people murdered by guns started reappearing?
*
The morning left a lethargic feeling in my bones akin to the way the actual Triangle Fire had affected me, and my feet dragged down the cold hallway to the mess hall. Oz had returned, and the seven of us sat together, as always. Also as per usual, Jess commanded the conversation.
I blocked her out, but couldn’t come up with any answers to the questions somersaulting through my mind. It all eventually came back to the question of why Oz—and my brother—had felt confident that the changes they’d made wouldn’t rip Genesis from existence.
I needed to talk to someone, to hear how all of this sounded outside my own head, but I couldn’t confide in Analeigh without admitting that I’d used the cuff on my own.
Caesarion’s face hovered in my mind, those sharp, thoughtful, midnight-blue eyes trained on my face. He knew my secret now, and I trusted him more than seemed plausible after a day together. I could talk to him, if I could get away soon. The sand in Caesarion’s hourglass ran faster by the minute, and the memory of the trust in his face when I’d promised to return clung to me like barnacles to the hull of a sea ship. I was determined to see him again—hopefully more than once—before our stolen days together expired.
“What are you wearing to the certification party, Pey?” Jess sipped from her bottle of colorful, enhanced water, peering over the rim with dark, almond eyes.
The parties took place once a year, after certifications were approved and a few months before the next class officially completed their apprenticeship, and they were pretty much a required function. We got out of our standard-issue clothing for the night as well, which girls like Jess loved. Girls like me, who enjoyed wearing different things but had absolutely no fashion sense or period preference, struggled.
Jess had committed to a 1970s vibe, as far as clothing, which she pulled off well. Having visited the time period, I actually thought she looked a lot better than most of the hippie girls bouncing around Berkeley in clouds of pot smoke.
The majority of my plain clothes were hand-me-downs from my mother, which meant cute little mid-twentieth-century dresses. Analeigh was obsessed with early nineteenth-century fashion, and her closet contained a disturbing number of frilly undergarments.
Boys had it easy. Pants and a shirt. Done. Maybe Oz would recycle his dashing 1714 look. Sarah would probably think she’d died and gone to old-fashioned heaven.
“I think I’m going to fool around with an ancient Greek drapey thing,” Pey replied.
“What about you two?” Jess shot a glance in Oz and Sarah’s direction. “Doing something stupid and cute, like color-coordinated taffeta and cummerbund?”
“Seriously, Jess, have you met Oz? I’ll be lucky to get him into a tie and a shirt that doesn’t have some kind of food stain on it,” Sarah quipped, choosing to ignore Jess’s snotty undertone.
Jess was not-so-subtly jealous of their pairing. Most of us felt the same way, but we tried hard to be happy for the two of them instead of making them feel as though they were some kind of freaks under a microscope.
“Have you got your pirate wench outfit all picked out, Kaia?”
“That joke was funny the first time.” I rolled my eyes at Jess, then slurped a spoonful of soup. “You need some new material.”
“I’m not a writer, I’m a Historian.”
“Good thing,” I spat back.
Tangling with Jess got old fast, especially when there were too many important things vying for my attention. Like when I’d be able to see Caesarion again, or whether Oz or I was going to blow up the future first.
My mind wandered, dismissing the rest of the lunch conversation, until a prickly feeling lifted the hairs on my arms. I looked up to find Oz watching me while Sarah and Pey discussed which branch of the Historians they preferred once we were certified. His gray irises were clear and as enigmatic as ever behind his thick black lenses, though less haughty than normal. I stared back, willing a challenge into my gaze. Oz knew I was up to something, but so was he—and I hadn’t altered anything. Not yet.
An answering challenge lit Oz’s eyes on fire. He and I were locked in some kind of battle of wills, but I didn’t know the rules or the reason for the declaration. A month ago we had been Kaia and Oz, two apprentices a little more than a year away from being certified as full Historians and taking up the mantle of observing, recording, and reflecting. Two people who had known each other since we were kids—not friends, exactly, but not enemies. Now we were both traveling on our own, with our own agendas.
Maybe we both needed to be stopped.
“I mean, of course it would be fun to focus on reflecting, so Oz and I would have the same schedule, but maybe he doesn’t want to spend every day in the lab with me.” Sarah nudged Oz’s side, turning to smile at him.