“Really? Because it doesn’t seem that way.” Tamworth peers over my shoulder. “What’s your take on this?”
Ruby whirs a little closer. I consider whacking it against the wall. Not for any particular reason, just because I consider that a lot. It gives a soft beep and, in its genteel New Zealand accent, says, “Nothing worth reporting, Doctor Tamworth.”
Tamworth rolls his eyes. I don’t have a good insult, nor do I care to formulate one, so I stand and pat the pill bottle in my pocket. It gives another optimistic shake. “Thanks for the lift, Doc. I’ll see you around.” I wave to the drone hovering at my shoulder. “Let’s blow, Ruby.”
“January…” Tamworth starts.
“What?”
He looks at me again, ready to say something deeply caring and meaningful, probably. Then he thinks better of it.
As I leave, I realize I could have handled that better.
Could have taken the sandwich.
I should feel bad. It’s not like he’s not wrong. I shouldn’t be here.
But how could I be anywhere else?
I walk to the railing overlooking the hotel lobby and survey my domain.
The swooping lines and rounded corners of the midcentury modern space give it the feel of being simultaneously retro and futuristic. The lobby is cylindrical and dizzying, starting a hundred feet below me and continuing up another hundred above me. Concentric rings of walkways start at the top—the restaurant, the bar—and continue down, level after level of offices and amenities. All of it linked by elevators and sloped walkways, like a shopping mall built vertically. The focal point is a brass rod hooked into the ceiling, which plunges into the depths of the lobby. At the end of the rod is a massive, brass astrological clock, hovering a few inches off the floor.
Mena comes out of the spa across the chasm, in her black and white waitress uniform, carrying an empty drink tray. Her wavy hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and the precise swing of her hips reminds me of how a panther moves. My heart lurches across the empty space between us and I consider calling to her, but before I can open my mouth she turns a corner and disappears.
Mena.
I know she’s not really there.
But she’s also the reason I could never leave this place.
Because what if I do, and I never see her again?
How do I explain that to Tamworth? To anyone?
If I do, they’ll make me leave for sure.
And for the briefest moment, I think the same thing I think every time I see her: a five-minute tram ride. That’s all it would take. I just have to be willing to break the rules I’ve sworn to uphold and maybe destroy reality in the process.
Some days, it seems worth it.
“Big snowstorm about to roll in,” Ruby says. “Blizzard warning. Hazardous travel conditions.”
Snatched from my daze, I exhale and turn to the drone, which looks like a floating pair of binoculars. It turns to me, rattling the googly eyes I glued to its lens.
“You ruin everything,” I tell it.
“Just doing my job.”
I should get to work. The lobby clock reads 9:17 a.m. I watch the second hand marching across the face.
9:17:24
9:17:25
9:17:26
9:17:25
9:15:26
9:15:27
9:15:28…
Movement around the lobby draws my attention. Lots of people dragging roller bags through the tunnel from Einstein. The lines at the three desks surrounding the clock are deep and getting deeper. Cameo is at concierge, and all the check-in slots are staffed. Still, everyone is in the weeds. Which is not something that makes me happy.
“What’s with the crowd, Rubes?”
“It seems there are some issues at Einstein that have grounded flights,” it says. “Also, I have a message from Reg that he needs to see you.”
“About what?”
“That’s all it says.”
“Haven’t I asked you to not let people leave incomplete messages? You should have pinged him back and asked for more information.”
Ruby floats for a few seconds before responding. “I didn’t really care to.”
“Thanks.”
“You made me like this.”
I swipe at it, but it dodges out of the way.
“It would help if you were a little faster,” it says.
Whatever. I skip the elevator and take the winding, sloped corridors down to the lobby, where my canvas sneakers squeak on the marble floor. Hanging on one wall is a large oval screen displaying the upcoming trips.
QR3345—Ancient Egypt—DELAYED
RZ5902—Battle of Gettysburg—DELAYED
ZE5522—Triassic Period—DELAYED
HU0193—Renaissance—DELAYED
Today is going to be a day.
As I’m crossing to Reg’s office, I clock a guy standing at the coffee urn. My antennae go up. He doesn’t have a bag with him. He’s surveying the room as he sips on a cup of coffee, looking for someone. Tall, movie-star handsome, motorcycle boots, a leather jacket he actually manages to pull off. Could be a guest, but he’s a bit too scruffy for this lot. His clothes are sharp but not designer. The men who stay here tend to look like they’re dressed for an emergency yacht club meeting.
“Ruby, see the pretty boy over there?” I ask.
“You understand that as an artificially intelligent construct I don’t grasp beauty standards?”
“By the coffee, dummy,” I tell it. “Keep an eye on him.”
“Any reason?”
“Gut.”
Reg’s door is cracked so I push it open and find he’s on the phone. He looks up from his disaster of a desk—paperwork, food wrappers, who knows, maybe a cat?—and shrugs at me, like, why can’t you knock?
I give him a little shrug in response, like, you’re really asking me that?
He goes back to the call, listening intently as I survey the clutter, focusing on my favorite piece: the Sicilian flag he keeps tacked to the wall. Red and yellow, with a woman’s head surrounded by three disembodied legs, which, as I have told him many times, really ought to be the lesbian pride flag, but he does not agree.
“Yeah, I understand that,” he barks into the phone. “Right, but we’re understaffed as it is and…no, you listen…okay, fine, fine. Fine!” He taps off the call, slams the phone on the desk, and leans back, pressing his hands into his face like he wants to crush it.
Reg played offensive line in college and while those days are long behind him, he still carries an intimidating thickness. And usually, his charm and personality match his size. Not today. His skin is gray and his white hair, normally gelled into slicked-back spikes, is disheveled. His lavender button-down shirt is wrinkled and he smells like he bathed in aftershave. He’s giving off some real walk-of-shame vibes, but since the only thing he’s married to is his job, I know a hammer is about to come down on both of us.
“Jan, what was the biggest, bloodiest battle in all of human history?” he asks.
“I had to track someone down after D-Day in Normandy,” I tell him. “That was pretty gnarly.”
“I’m going to book a one-way ticket. It’d be preferable to this.” He sighs. “Those assholes moved it up to tomorrow.”
“Moved what up to tomorrow?” I ask.