“Speaking of,” Imogen interrupted, “where is the book bling? How do we know Eliot is going to produce it when we arrive on Lux’s doorstep?”
“We don’t. Thanks, P.” Far nodded when Priya handed him the chai, polishing it off in a single swig. He claimed he hated hot drinks losing their heat, but Priya had no idea how his throat could stand the scalding. Even he grimaced a little at the end of the swallow. “What about the second Rubaiyat? The remade one? Imogen, you said it burned in World War II…. Any way we could get to it before the bombs do?”
“It’s not salvageable.” The Historian shook her head. “That copy wasn’t incinerated—its jewels were reused in a third iteration. And before you ask, no, we can’t steal that Great Omar, either, because it still exists in Central time. Eliot’s our only hope, which means if she is Corps, we’re royally hashed.”
“None of this fits the Corps’ MO.” Far set his mug on the common area table. Priya’s eyes drifted to the real-paper copy of the Corps of Central Time Travelers’ Code of Conduct beside it. After every mission, she and Imogen went through the guidebook, marking every rule they managed to break. Over half of its three hundred pages were covered in checkmarks and Xs and swirly hearts. Cat ears bedecked every C on the front cover. When had those been added? Imogen must’ve broken tradition by doodling solo.
“Not the current Corps, no,” Priya said. “But MOs change over time.”
Far frowned.
“You think Eliot’s from the future?” Imogen asked.
The future. It was one of the few Code of Conduct rules they hadn’t broken: No CTMs are authorized to travel more than one day in the future from their anchor date. The crew of the Invictus never had a reason to travel ahead of their native time. Lux’s missions were bound to historical events studied well enough to sidestep. The future wasn’t just unknown but also full of potential complications: learning their own fates, crossing timelines, getting caught by future authorities. It was a sticky business—best avoided.
But that didn’t mean the future couldn’t come to them.
“It’s the most likely explanation,” Priya said. “That or some sort of Corps black-ops program.”
“Black-ops, future, whatever.” Far started pacing again. “What are we going to do with her?”
Imogen looked pointedly at the door to Eliot’s bunk—not 100 percent soundproof—then back at Priya. “You should turn that music up.”
“I’m afraid I can’t.” There was a song playing in the background, but Priya hadn’t started any of her playlists during the mission. This music—strings-based, classical—was far more poignant than the beats she usually listened to.
They fell silent as the notes crept on. Imogen’s face drained whiter with each bar. “Crux, it’s—it’s the Titanic’s orchestra. Farway, why are we still here?”
Here: hovering above the song of the dying. Most time travelers Priya knew preferred to say already dead, as if the inevitability of the tragedies they encountered made them less tragic. Her Medic training couldn’t write off a life so easily. How many people were about to freeze to death down there? How many children? It hurt even more to think of these numbers, these lives, when the Invictus hovered a mere thirty meters away.
Bitter, bitter symphony; every new note haunted Priya more than the last, until she couldn’t bear listening any longer. It was possible to switch on a playlist remotely, but she took the chance to duck into the infirmary. Sometimes she hated how secluded it was from the console room, but then there were moments like these, when the wall was a relief. She didn’t like to cry where others could see.
Tears clogged Priya’s lashes as she scrolled through the playlist. Pick a song, any song—it didn’t matter, as long as it drowned out the dirge below. Thrash & Hash: Live from the Pantheon [uncensored] began beating through the speakers. Priya slumped down to the infirmary floor, staring at cabinets full of med-patches and scanners. Tools of the trade she’d wanted to practice ever since she was a gap-toothed girl welcoming her father home from hospital shifts. Long work’s grit often lurked beneath his eyes, but Dev Parekh never failed to play scan-the-patient with his only daughter. He crafted splints for dolls’ arms out of tongue depressors and taught Priya various suture techniques as he helped her sew stuffing back into Madam Wink.
“All better now,” he’d say when the thread was cut. No hero in the world could be bigger, and Priya knew that when she grew up she’d save not just polyester unicorns but people, too. Who wouldn’t?
It wasn’t until later that she registered something else in the crescent shadows of her father’s face: the grief that came with truth.
Some people were past saving.
It didn’t help that Priya couldn’t hear the lifeboats being lowered, the deckhands crying out, the chorus of the damned playing on and on. She knew these things were happening, had happened. The already dead were dying and nothing was better now….
“Hey, P. Can I come in?” Priya recognized the shape of Far’s shadow against the med-cabinets, as familiar as her own.
She nodded. Her face was a mess—trying to blot out the tears with her sleeve only succeeded in smearing snot everywhere. She’d only ever seen Far weep twice: teardrops small enough to blot with a single finger. Priya didn’t understand how you could keep such a strong emotion so clean. Every crying session of hers ended up with her resembling a drowning walrus….
Far sat down next to her, full mug in his hands. “I brought you your tea.”
There was still warmth in the ceramic, in the fingers that brushed hers as they passed off the chai. When Priya took a sip, the heat spread through her chest.
“You okay?” Far asked.
“Yes. No. I—I know the Titanic sank before we—before I was born,” she corrected herself. “I know it’s in the past.”
Far rested his head against the wall. His curls had unraveled to frizz during his chase for the Rubaiyat. “The past isn’t as distant as it used to be. When Burg told me bedtime stories about traveling on the Ab Aeterno, it was all about adventures and new sights, never the bodies they had to leave behind.”