THERE WAS A TWO-WAY MIRROR IN the debriefing room, capturing Far’s reflection with unforgiving detail when he entered. His wig was still on, flowered waistcoat in place, and the ruffles were threatening to grow. He felt shell-ish as he stared, as if his self were elsewhere, tethered to this courtesan gentleman like some child’s balloon.
The chamber, with its table and two chairs, was a long leap from Versailles’s gilded halls. It gave the appearance of solitude, but Far knew he wasn’t alone. An entire jury of instructors sat on the other side of the glass, stripping his datastream to centimeters and syllables. Surely they’d deduce that the mistake wasn’t his. It couldn’t be his. He’d logged thousands upon thousands of successful Sim hours. Hades, there was a plaque sporting his name in the Academy’s main hall: FARWAY MCCARTHY, BEST CUMULATIVE SIM SCORE OF 2370. Being engraved in solid 24-karat gold had to count for something.
Seconds stretched into minutes, and the initial anger at the Sim reduced to a simmer, tunneling beneath Far’s skin like fire ants. The debriefing instructor was usually here by now, congratulating him on this or that evasive maneuver. Delay meant conversation, conversation meant doubt. Who wouldn’t be reexamining the Sim’s technological integrity after a wink like that?
He wanted to say his piece, sans shouting, so he walked over to the mirror and spoke past himself. “Look, we all know this was a programming problem. I can come back and retake the exam once it’s fixed.”
“Have a seat, Cadet McCarthy.” Instructor Marin’s voice slid through the comm—sterling, austere.
Neither of the room’s chairs had been designed with ergonomics in mind: steel surface as flat as Homer’s view of the earth. Sitting would not only be a sentence to a numb backside, but also any other terms Edwin Marin set forth. The Academy instructor was armored with spite when it came to Far, chips sheathing both shoulders. The grudge weighting them was over twenty years old, born the moment Empra McCarthy had tossed an engagement ring at the man’s face. Rumor had it that the princess-cut diamond had left a scar on Marin’s upper lip, but this could neither be confirmed nor denied because of the handlebar mustache that had taken up permanent residence there.
Water was not under the bridge that had been burned, and Far was too proud to let Marin jerk him around. As long as the instructor didn’t order him verbatim, he’d stay on his own two feet, a fog’s breath away from the mirror. His exhales clouded the glass, peeling back and replacing themselves, thick enough to trace shapes in. Far drew an infinity symbol with his forefinger—loop, loop, never-ending loop—until Instructor Marin spoke again.
“Sit down, Cadet McCarthy. That’s an order.”
Far huffed out the remaining hot air in his lungs and traced one last round with his middle finger. Marin wouldn’t miss the switch, but there was no standing rule against doodling with “the bird.”
Loopholes were a wonderful thing.
He took a seat and began downloading Punched Up Panda’s victory anthem. “Top of the Rise” had a beat that demanded movement, thumb drums to steel tabletop. Who’d have the gall to sabotage his final exam Sim? Far was no tech-head, but he knew hacking into a time-travel Simulation required smarts, not to mention a willingness to break digital trespassing laws. That ruled out Instructor Marin, who’d follow Corps’ protocol off a cliff if said command was written in the Corps of Central Time Travelers’ Code of Conduct. Far’s best friend, Gram Wright, had the brainpower for such a hack, IQ on the right side of 160, but never in a million years would he use his keyboard wizardry against Far.
Who, then?
And why?
By the time Marin entered the room, Far’s nerves were amped up to eleven. The instructor smiled in an off sort of way as he took a seat in the opposite chair, lips cozying to the ends of his waxed mustache. “Cadet McCarthy, the licensing board and I have just finished reviewing your datastream—”
“The Sim was compromised, sir.” Words were sparks on Far’s tongue, too hot to contain. “Marie Antoinette was expecting me. Someone must have hacked the systems—”
“Do not interrupt me while I’m speaking, Cadet. I’d take marks for it, but we both know there’d be no point in my doing so.”
No… no point? Far’s confidence sputtered, his insides left singed. If he opened his mouth now, ashes might spill out, so he kept his molars locked.
Marin continued, “Nineteen years I’ve taught here, trying to mold wide-eyed datastream addicts into effective time travelers. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard the programming excuse. Hades—it’s not even the tenth time I’ve heard it.”
“It’s not an excuse, sir. It’s true.” Far’s gaze darted back to the mirror. He hoped the licensing board had remained to hear him out. “I’m wearing a poodle wig and purse-pinching pants. I was standing two men deep and the queen’s back was turned. There’s no way Marie Antoinette could have seen me.”
“You were two meters away from a Tier Three mark. That’s inexcusable in any scenario!” There was a reason Instructor Marin hadn’t been assigned to a CTM in multiple sun orbits. The man was all structure, no stretch. Perfect fit for a desk.
“Only because I got caught.”
“Exactly, Cadet. You got caught. If what I just witnessed on that datastream occurred during an actual mission, you would have disturbed the past with unforeseeable consequences!”
“It wouldn’t have happened on an actual mission. Someone— I don’t know who—hacked the Sim and programmed it against me. They wanted me to fail.” Once more Far stared past Marin’s shoulder, into the infinity-smudged glass. Why couldn’t they see what was in front of them? “Go over the datastream again. You’ll see how she winked at me.”
“Marie Antoinette was a notorious flirt,” Instructor Marin pointed out. “For her to wink is hardly an indication of program corruption.”
“I know a flirty wink when I see one. This wink was a message—”
“Cadet, please. You’re embarrassing yourself. Diagnostics showed all systems are untampered with. You failed.” Marin’s last word curled along the edge of his mustache, pushing out at a merciless volume. It crawled through Far’s eardrums, working its way past the final notes of “Top of the Rise,” spiraling down a throat full of cinders into a stomach that was trying to digest an impossible possibility and was collapsing as a result.
He’d failed.
Ashes ashes we all fall dead end black hole no no no no…
NO.
“Someone screwed up the hashing diagnostics!” Far’s yell sounded tinny to his own ears. It was a very Alice in Wonderland feeling—shrinking inside oneself, until you had to stand on tiptoes to stare out of your own eyes. “This isn’t my fault! I’ve been framed!”
“Lower your voice,” Instructor Marin said.
“Or what? You’ll take marks?”