“Of course you are.” Priya nudged Far’s rib cage as she said this.
It was hard not to be irritable—the relief of not being dead negated by the magcart ride. Eliot’s caginess stung extra hard after his offer to help. He was a hero spurned. No, it felt worse than that. He’d become a bystander in someone else’s story.
There was one bright spot to cling to: Priya’s new diagnostics machine, currently cross-referencing Eliot’s DNA with a world’s worth of people. The process was—understandably—ponderous. Priya had spent most of her afternoon in the infirmary, installing the Ancestral Archives software out of Eliot’s sight. In a few more hours they’d have a lead on the girl’s identity. An ancestor, an origin year, something seizable.
“There’s evidence to support the locations,” his cousin went on. “Previous expeditions… and, um, Eliot’s intelligence.”
Far tried not to choke on the water he was sipping.
“My intel’s solid,” Eliot assured him. “I’ve been to the library before.”
Imogen cleared her throat, schoolteacher style. “Things get rather, um, fuzzy when it comes to the timeline….”
Far chewed the rest of his slice and listened to the long list of everything they didn’t know. The mission felt more slipshod than anything they’d ever tackled. Lux had never before sent them into such a vaguely documented event, nor had they ever had such a short prep time. Twelve scrambling hours. And for what? They were time travelers. Time was one thing they possessed in abundance.
Eliot remained zip-lipped on the reason for her rush order and, to tell the truth, Far wasn’t sure more time would help. December 16, 48 BC, was one of history’s grayer, unmapped areas. Imogen’s homework would only take them so far. The rest was down to vigilance and improvisation. To get through this heist unscathed, they’d need all hands on deck.
“Gram, how do you feel about putting your Recorder skills to use?” Far glanced at the Engineer, who looked even more unsettled than Imogen: too tall for the couch, kneecaps tilted at awkward angles. “I’d like all eyes I can get on the ground.”
“Sure thing, Far—”
Eliot broke in. “I don’t think that’s the best idea.”
“Oh?” Far asked. “What happened to more hands, more loot? I thought you wanted as many scrolls as we could manage?”
“We’ll need an Engineer on the Invictus in case…”
All eyes in the common area settled on Eliot, waiting for the rest of her sentence even as it slipped away. Her expression added to the room’s uneasy air. It was not unlike the look he’d seen in Vegas: big and very, very complicated.
“In case?” Far prodded.
“There’s a possibility that we’ll need to make a quick exit,” she admitted.
“What do you mean by that?” Gram sat up straighter, frowning. “Corps interference? Birthing a paradox? Timeline crossings?”
All good guesses, especially the last, considering that Eliot had been to the Library of Alexandria before, but Far had a suspicion he couldn’t shake. “This has to do with the forgetting, doesn’t it?”
The girl’s eyes shivved him—filled with every sharpness and the yes her lips trapped.
“Forgetting?” Priya echoed. “What forgetting?”
“The Titanic—” Far stopped to feel the hole in his memory. It was larger now—swallowing not only first class but the whole hashing ship. He knew he’d been aboard the steam liner; the fact hung above him with a workman’s shirt. “I can’t remember being there.”
The room grew quiet enough to hear red panda chirps—tackling shins in his dreams, most likely—as the crew sifted through their own memories. Gram’s spine turned into a ramrod. Priya held her breath, while Imogen’s shock was all exhale.
“Me neither.” His cousin’s voice became tiny. “I remember the prep, but the mission itself is gone.”
“The numbers changed,” Gram murmured, “then it goes blank.”
Far looked at Priya. She shook her head: mustn’t lose it, already lost.
His mind wasn’t the only one crumbling.
“Mass memory loss? How’s that possible?” Imogen asked Far. “How could we all forget the same moment?”
“You’re asking the wrong person,” he told her.
All eyes fell to Eliot—girl who’d sprung out of the forgetting. When during those black hours had she joined their crew? Had she taken the Rubaiyat and wiped their memories of it? Why did she look as if she’d been bled to a husk?
“Nepenthe,” she answered, when it was clear she had to. “I dosed all of you to protect some sensitive personal information that slipped out during our first encounter. But that has nothing to do with the mission at hand. This city is under siege, which means things could go sour at any moment. We may need a quick evacuation, so it’s best if Gram stays at his post. Far and I will take care of things on the ground.”
Heads shifted back to Far. He knew them all so well— Imogen’s green gaze. Gram’s brown eyes. Priya’s smoke-soft stare. He could feel the doubts squirming behind each, waiting for him to step up to Eliot’s explanation with a challenging what where when why exactly? Useless queries. If this girl had ripped away their memories, she wouldn’t hand them back on a silver platter. Besides, the details of the heist wouldn’t sort themselves. The Rubaiyat might be safe in Lux’s hands, but Far’s remained tied. They had to retrieve these scrolls to keep the Invictus flying.
“Gram, you’ll stay at your station,” Far said. “No games this time. Sounds like we might need a swoop in. I want you to be extra vigilant.”
The Engineer nodded.
Priya stood, walked to the infirmary, and shut the door. Were there answers behind it yet? Far needed them more than ever, so he waited an unsuspecting amount of time and followed. His girlfriend started when he entered, tossing a lab coat over the Ancestral Archives screen.
“Anything?”
Again, she shook her head. “Eliot’s lying.”
“That baseline’s been established.”
“No, you don’t understand. Nepenthe is an incredibly potent drug. The human body can only handle enough to forget forty minutes. An hour max. According to the Invictus’s systems, your Titanic feed was live for over an hour and a half.” Priya paused, let her words sink in. “If Eliot dosed all of us with Nepenthe, as she claims, we should all be dead.”
December 16, 48 BC, was an excellent day, weather-wise. Cloudless skies, emboldened sun, low humidity. A breeze swayed through the palms, threading scents of sea brine and cinders through the Invictus’s open hatch. Far had known worse smells. Between a lack of consistent bathing and suboptimal sewage systems, history often wreaked havoc on the olfactory nerves.