But even if they get what they want, they won’t get what they want, because of the Jabberwocky.
I still feel like that’s the ultimate prize here. Having access to all of time is one thing, having unrestricted access is another. Why they aren’t more concerned about the potential destruction of reality, I wish I knew, but that’s a not-right-now problem.
What do I know about the Jabberwocky?
It’s a mix of physical and cloud computing.
It exists outside time and records human events.
Jim Henderson runs it.
Where the hell has he been in all this? I seem to remember Allyn trying to get in contact with him, but shouldn’t he be here? Or is he troubleshooting in another location?
I’m sure I’ve met the guy. I must have. But I can’t conjure his face in my brain. Probably just another pasty middle-aged white man, same as a lot of the TEA admin. He was probably on the Christmas card, though. Allyn puts one out every year with the bigwigs, all of them in period Christmas hats. Every year, he asks me to join. I have yet to appear on one.
It’ll be on Allyn’s Axon page. I log in to my account and click over, scroll through his photos until I find it, and yeah, there’s Jim. Bland as a beige wall, not much of a chin to speak of, vacant-eyed smile that looks vaguely homicidal. So, a boilerplate government bureaucrat. He’s standing two people over from Allyn, and they’re all wearing knitted, Victorian-style Christmas hats.
At least now I know who to look for. If he’s here maybe I can brace him a little.
Something about the photo is screwing with my head though. I look at Allyn, standing in the center, smiling that TV-ready smile of his.
Allyn, my old partner.
Allyn, who saved my ass in Germany.
If something had been changed, how would you even know?
What did I say to him in that cell?
I don’t even know if I can trust you. I don’t even know who you are.
“Ruby, what can you tell me about Allyn Danbridge?”
“He’s our boss.”
“Has he always been our boss?”
“What are you getting at?”
I don’t know. I truly don’t know. I wish I could say I was confident about my own brain, my own memories, my own history.
At this point, I can’t be.
I glance at my watch. Time to go. My train ride into the summit is probably getting ready to leave the station.
* * *
—
I know MKS is staying in the penthouse suite of Atwood, because there’s no way they were going to stick a Saudi prince into anything less than a penthouse. And since he’s royalty, he’s the biggest security risk. The Atwood elevator is the only one that goes all the way to the basement.
Lucky for me I know how to exploit security in my own hotel.
I make it to the elevator bank and the TEA agent there eyes me until I press the up button. I give him a little smile, put my hands behind my back, and wait for the doors to open. I’m so hopped up I almost knock over the people trying to get off, and I jab at the button for the top floor until the doors close.
I make it into the hallway just as the penthouse double doors open. Eshe steps out, followed by a few members of the entourage, all of them forming a protective scrum around MKS.
Eshe clocks me right away. As I’m trying to come up with some kind of excuse to get close, MKS looks over and raises his hands. “Ah, the detective.” He waves me toward him.
The entourage stops and I approach, but no one makes room for me to reach him. He steps forward and extends his hands. I offer both of mine, and they disappear in his huge mitts. We do a weird double handshake. His grip is firm and warm and he makes strong eye contact with me. It’s easy to see why he’s a prince. It’s like he was built for the role, forged out of gold and other precious things. I have to remind myself about Nura Fayed, that missing dissident. It makes me wonder where these hands have been. Around whose throat.
“Please, accompany me downstairs,” he says. “I’ve been wishing to speak with you.”
“I’m glad we ran into each other,” I say, giving Eshe a little glance. She quickly looks away.
We make it to the elevator and Eshe presses the button and the prince turns to me.
“First I wanted to thank you,” he says. “For this misunderstanding with Eshe. I appreciate that you were able to see through it. Do you have any suspects?”
“Honestly, no,” I tell him, feeling a little silly for not chasing that lead down, but the truth, which I tell him, is, “The dinosaurs threw me off a bit.”
“Well, when I assume control of this hotel I would like to keep you on. Unless you have aspirations beyond this place. I would appreciate having you for the transition, given your expertise. You will be well compensated.”
“Thanks,” I tell him. “But I have to ask, what makes you so sure you’re going to win this thing?”
He gives a little smile, like I’m a toddler asking him how the sun stays in the sky. Him and Drucker did seem to be friendly the other night during their dinner. Maybe Grayson is wrong and she’s playing Teller.
The elevator door opens and we climb on. A few people have to stay behind, and it seems like there’s a pecking order to who gets to come. We’re all crushed in now, and as the doors close I can’t help but ask, “What’s your endgame?”
MKS smiles. “My endgame?”
“Sure,” I tell him. “The point of all this. What do you plan to do with this place?”
The elevator stops, the doors open, and there are a few people waiting. They are grumpy about the fact that there is no room, and we wait in awkward silence for the doors to close. When they do, MKS says, “You understand how many people died during the bombing campaign against my country.”
“I am aware, yes,” I tell him.
“Women and children.”
The images are impossible to forget. No matter how much the U.S. media tried to downplay it, we all saw what happened. The havoc one childish president could wreak with the press of a button because he thought it might lower the price of oil by a few bucks, and at the same time boost his poll numbers. “Yes. I am aware.”
“I plan to undo it.”
“That…” I find I can’t respond.
The doors open at the lobby. More people looking to go down, and again, no one can get on, but we have to stand there and wait for the doors to close. When they do, I say, “The consequences…”
MKS gives a little wave of his hand, like the risk of destroying reality is a gnat buzzing around his head. “I’ve spoken to several experts who assure me that the timestream will be able to handle it. There will be some adjustment, but how can you weigh that against restoring the lives of so many people who died? Who suffered so needlessly?”
He locks eyes with me, daring me to answer. Daring me to say that, no, when presented with the means you shouldn’t try to save innocent lives. No, you should let people die screaming instead.
How do you tell someone that?