Help? Had any of the other subjects been so generous? This olive branch was a stretch for him, Eliot knew. What a shame she had to spit on it.
“What’s happening—you’re right. It’s big and very, very complicated. I can’t fill you in on the details.” There were too many holes and forgettings—all following her—and talented though this crew might be, they couldn’t stop what was coming. “I didn’t tell you about my storage situation because I wanted to demonstrate that I’m good on my word. I told you I’d deliver the Rubaiyat to Lux and I did. Trust is falling. Now you know I’ll catch you.”
“Trust isn’t a plunge off a cliff,” Seven countered. “It’s something you build.”
“Then consider this the first brick.”
“No.” His voice edged to a shout. “Trust is a two-way street, Eliot Antoinette. Give and take. All you’ve done, from Versailles to Vegas, is the latter.”
Eliot couldn’t stand her own stare anymore. Her gaze cut to the window. “When’s the soonest the crew can get prepped to depart for Alexandria?”
“So that’s how it is? You’re gonna keep dragging me and mine through the dark? Use Lux to make us your compliant puppet ship?”
“I need a timetable, Captain.”
She watched the boy’s window face—just as transparent as hers. Bright, shadow, still, motion, bright, shadow, spite, surrender. “Depends on the mission. Imogen likes to get the lay of the land before we go tumbling into a new era. That means wardrobe, proper translation equipment, building schematics, a timeline down to the second, a backup wardrobe. All that can take from twenty-four hours to a week.”
“She’s a good Historian. Thorough.” Perhaps too thorough. They didn’t have a week to spare. Even twenty-four hours was a stretch, though it was impossible to establish parameters within the Fade’s whim. “Could she get it done in twelve?”
“Assuming this is just a snatch-and-grab?” Seven prefaced. “Yeah. Imogen might not think she can do it, but she can. It wasn’t just nepotism that got her a spot on the Invictus.”
No, Eliot thought. It was trust. Thicker than blood, made of years and tears and toil. Seven was right. The feeling—though was it a feeling? It seemed to her more of a mandate—had to be built. But no matter how firm your bricks, no matter how high your wall, there was always a part of the act that became a plunge, because though your trust might be steady, the world never was.
Trust is built. Trust is falling.
Give and take, take, take.
Who would catch her?
Ache curled over Eliot’s left lung as the magcart slowed into the light. They were back dockside, where the Invictus’s hull shimmered like a waterfall’s fringe. Gram waved through the vistaport, calling behind his shoulder to Imogen. Home filled Far’s sunglasses as he lifted a hand and waved back.
No matter how long Eliot stared, all she saw was a ship.
25
CLICKS AND SWIRLS
INVICTUS SHIP’S LOG—ENTRY 4
CURRENT DATE: AUGUST 22, 2371
CURRENT LOCATION: CENTRAL. HEART OF THE WORLD, BOTH ANCIENT AND NEW.
OBJECT TO ACQUIRE: CLOTHES. LOTS OF THEM.
IMOGEN’S HAIR COLOR: CELESTIAL NEBULA ’DO
GRAM’S TETRIS SCORE: 380,000
CURRENT SONG ON PRIYA’S SHIPWIDE PLAYLIST: “JAI HO” BY A. R. RAHMAN
FARWAY’S EGO: ADRIFT. NOT UNLIKE A TOY ROBO-BOAT ABANDONED IN THE FONTANA DI TREVI.
ELIOT: ISN’T HALF BAD. MAGICIAN STATUS VERIFIED BY FARWAY. DRAWS KILLER EYEBROWS. POSSESSES INVISIBLE BAG? OTHER DETAILS TBD.
IMOGEN HAD TWELVE HOURS TO INGEST an entire civilization’s worth of knowledge. No biggie.
[Insert maniacal laughter/endless weeping here.]
The feat would’ve been easier if it had involved a more recent century, where documentation abounded. The 1990s with its addictive sitcoms and newspapers. The 2170s with its virtual reality chambers and pictogram feeds. But 48 BC had little to offer when it came to primary source material. Sure, Julius Caesar wrote a firsthand account of the fires he set to his enemy’s ships in Alexandria’s harbor, but even that was vague, stopping at the very flammable docks before the library’s destruction could be pinned on him. It was a frustrating endeavor—depending on the fallible accounts of victors to create a portrait of past events. Imogen couldn’t imagine how historians such as her great-great-grandfather Bertram managed it.
Datastreams held more answers. There were none from their target landing year, but a Recorder had taken a long wander through the library in 52 BC. Imogen watched the footage in 8 to get a sense of the layout. The place was large, with three stories of rooms for every activity: reading, greeting, lecturing, even eating. There were windows galore, wide open to views of gardens and the harbor, complete with its iconic lighthouse. For the library’s scholars, this meant ample daylight to read by. For Farway and Eliot, this meant escape routes. Imogen took note of each one, just in case. With its walls and walls of diamond-shaped shelves stuffed with papyrus scrolls, the place looked awfully combustible.
It was fire they were facing; she was certain. Though there were no expeditions present at the event, later Recorders had managed to glean enough oral history to fill in the gaps. December 16, 48 BC. Alexandria, Egypt: a city under siege. Caesar. A battle with boats. Lots o’ flames. The Roman ruler hadn’t destroyed all of the library, just made an ash pile out of hundreds of thousands of its irreplaceable books.
Oops.
If she were Caesar, she’d probably omit that not-so-tiny detail, too.
It never ceased to amaze Imogen how much she could get done alongside a ticking clock. In the span of hours she had a date. She had a (very loose) time frame. She’d set the translation tech to a combination of Greek, Coptic, and Latin.
Now all she needed were clothes.
This particular errand was tight. Imogen had gotten so caught up in datastreams and note-taking that she’d almost forgotten the wardrobe component. Most of the boutiques, including her not-really-former place of employment, locked their doors at sunset, and Imogen had no desire to break into the store, so she found herself jogging along Zone 2’s ground level, racing the Flaming Hour. Walkways buzzed with the onset of dusk. Even on Sunday it was a time for rushing, when government officials broke from their work stupor to put sustenance in their bodies. Vendor tents popped up at the base of each skyscraper, numerous as spring weeds, selling everything from meal blocks to stimulant patches to obscenely priced pizza with garlic and greenhouse tomatoes—and CHEESE. Imogen’s stomach growled at her to stop, but her watch vetoed the motion.