A keyword search for “Peter Pendergen” generated 1,206 articles. When he wasn’t a sound bite in someone else’s story, he was the author in the byline. Mia was surprised to learn that her pen pal (of sorts) was a freelance journalist who’d written for forty different publications. The subject of his stories was always the same: people who professed to have amazing temporal abilities. In some pieces, he called them “temporics.” In others, they were “chronokinetics.” Mostly he referred to them as Gothams, a term that deeply intrigued Zack and Mia.
A keyword search for Gothams generated 1,014,353 articles.
Zack tossed his partner a bleary stare. “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.”
The topic consumed them for the rest of the week. For twelve hours a day, they sat at adjacent workstations, catching up on decades of Altamerican legend. In the 1950s, at the dawn of temporis, new rumors swirled of people who could innately bend time in one manner or another. The explanations ranged from the scientific to the mystical to the purely divine.
Thirty-six years ago, a former Dep named Alexander Wingo breathed new life into the myth. He dubbed these people Gothams after the Halo of Gotham, the miraculous ring of land where more than sixty thousand souls survived the Cataclysm of 1912. Though they’d stood mere feet from the edge of the blast, the damage they suffered was purely emotional. The only exceptions were the pregnant women, many of whom birthed children with crippling defects. If Wingo was to be believed, a fraction of the infants had mutated in more interesting ways. Some developed strange talents. Some grew up to find one another and bear talented offspring of their own.
In his book, Children of the Halo, Wingo claimed to have discovered a clandestine community of third-and fourth-generation Gothams. Though normal citizens in public, they secretly operated under their own arcane laws and rituals. Their strict mating customs made each generation stronger than the last. Wingo feared it was just a matter of time before they began birthing gods.
The book created a huge stir among starry-eyed believers, spawning novels and movies and one long-running lumivision series. It also sparked an endless chain of incredible claims and sightings. At least once a month, some bold attention-seeker would come forward with nebulous proof of Gotham activity, only to get exposed as a fraud or dupe. Usually the one exposing them was Peter Pendergen. The man clearly had a taste for irony.
On Friday evening, while the Silvers digested their dinner on the balcony, Zack and Mia shared the fruits of their labor.
“He’s thirty-seven and widowed with one son,” Zack told them. “When he’s not out disproving the existence of his own people, he likes to write fiction. He has two published novels, both set in medieval Ireland. He claims he can trace his ancestry all the way back to King Arthur’s father.”
“Yes, and I’m related to Beowulf,” David mocked.
Zack laughed. “We didn’t buy it either. From his age, I assume he’s a fourth-generation Gotham, which is pretty mind-blowing when you think about it. I mean we’re nouveau weird. These people have been carrying it in their genes since 1912.”
“They sound like interesting people,” Theo offered. “Shame they want us dead.”
Amanda forked a piece of Zack’s cheesecake. “I don’t understand what Peter’s trying to accomplish with his articles. Why write about fake Gothams?”
“Misdirection,” Mia explained. “The more he highlights the phonies and crazies, the less people believe in the real thing.”
“Oh. Well, I guess we didn’t help his cause when we fought those policemen.”
Zack vented a heavy sigh. “No. We made a bunch of new believers on Monday. I’m sure that’s another reason Rebel wants us dead.”
Hannah stewed in the bubbling hot tub, scowling with ill temper. This was supposed to be a week of luxurious self-indulgence, and yet two of her people blew it all on research while another two went wild with charity. Stranger still, they all seemed happier for their efforts. Obviously she and Theo screwed up somehow. They had devoted their week to more intimate pleasures. Now they both felt perfectly wretched.
—
They’d spent their first night in separate beds. Once the lights went out, the actress and the augur blew airy topics of chatter back and forth—favorite songs, pet peeves, complaints about their mutual companions. They moved on to discuss past loves, though Theo confessed to having just one. Hannah noticed he wasn’t particularly eager to talk about her.
At 2 A.M., she bid Theo good night, and then offered him the prospect of a great night.
“Let me know when you want me to come over there,” she said.
Five seconds passed before Theo turned on the lamp. He stared at her with tense, bulging eyes.
“Uh, what exactly are you proposing?”
She opened the drawer on the nightstand, revealing a box of Admiral John condoms. Beneath the stylized logo, a bearded man in eighteenth-century naval garb smirked at Theo.
“Wow. Jesus, Hannah. I . . . don’t even know what to say.”
“Did you honestly not see this coming? I’ve been hanging all over you. I practically insisted we share a room.”