GRAM HAD SEEN THE COLOSSEUM’S CARCASS too many times to count. Most of these views had been from an eagle-eye height, through skyscraper vista walls and hoverbus windows. The circle of scarred stones, host to a never-ending stream of tourists, had never particularly captivated him. Even the ground-level sight, amplified by a datastream tour, had ill-prepared Gram for the Amphitheatrum Flavium’s towering prime.
According to Imogen, this land had been a valley once, complete with a lake. The Romans raised the earth with ruins from Nero’s fire, so necks would have to crane up to take in this marvel of engineering. Every one of the amphitheater’s outer wall stones had been set without mortar—Tetris before its time—coming together into unmatched dimensions: 48 meters tall, 189 meters long, 156 meters high, 80 ground-level entrances to accept the ebb and flow of fifty thousand people. This was Rome’s glory, her heart, throbbing with the footsteps of a blood-callused mob.
Gram walked among them, searching. At nine months pregnant, Empra should have been easy to spot, but the flood of game-goers drowned out all shapes. Colors blurred his peripheral—yellow togas, rust togas, white togas, every tone of skin—made even more chaotic by the constant crush of body odor. It was tempting to bury his nose in his own dated toga, which smelled of an inferno nearly 150 years dead. The attire, equally out of date, had garnered Gram some sideways glances, but it was best he not blend in. Empra McCarthy was in Recorder mode, which meant she’d try her absolute best to ignore him. An old costume was a way to catch her attention. Or so the plan went. He had to find Far’s mom first.
Indigo, indigo… Gram searched for this shade in a thrash of ochre oranges and goldenrod fabrics. He waded through the crowd, bumping elbows and jostling shoulders, turning every few seconds to get a view from all angles.
“You sure know how to make a lass dizzy!” Imogen told him.
“It can’t be just me.” The Invictus’s Historian console had three feeds going at once: his own, Eliot’s, and the recording of Empra synchronized with their time stamp. “Did you try minimizing some windows?”
“Imogen is flirting, Gram.” The grumble through the comm belonged to Eliot. She’d returned from her jump into the predawn ludus and was searching the same crowd. “As adorable as you two are, now isn’t the best time for that.”
“It’s the only time to flirt!” Imogen protested. “Oh, hey—Aunt Empra just passed arch LVII. Turn around!”
“Are you talking to me or Gram?” Eliot asked.
“Gram.”
He spun on his heels and scanned the closest arch—LVIII were the numerals carved into its stone. A single digit off. Empra had to be nearby, but none of the women in the passing throng wore indigo. Nor were any of them pregnant to the point of waddling.
“I’m not seeing her, Im.”
“I see that you’re not seeing her.” Nervous energy frayed Imogen’s voice. “She should be right on top of you, but you don’t show up on her feed since you weren’t there the first time. Okay… she’s passing gate LVIII right now.”
Except she wasn’t.
“Are you sure the feeds are synchronized?” Gram asked.
“Surer than sure,” Imogen answered. “Atomic clock sure. I don’t understand. Aunt Empra was supposed to be there. She was there.”
The one constant in their plan had shifted, leaving Gram stuck in place. The crowd kept moving around him—colors of fire and earth, swarming into the amphitheater’s many entrances. Dirt, halitosis, shouts that cluttered up his translation feed… What did Empra’s absence mean? Gram hardly had time to work out a theory when the Recorder appeared.
Empra McCarthy’s belly caused a break in the pedestrian traffic—everyone slowed to give the pregnant woman a wide berth. Her own walk was ponderous but persistent. It wouldn’t take much for Gram to catch up and recite the Latin lines Imogen had taught him: Cruenti sunt ludi. Oculo intimo spectare non sapiat. The words would—hopefully—signal Empra to cut off her datastream feed without alarming the Ab Aeterno. They needed the CTM to stay where they could find it.
A hand landed on Gram’s arm. Eliot appeared at his side, soundless as ever, shaking her head as Empra McCarthy shuffled past.
“Guys, Aunt Empra is right there! Go get her! We’ve got a world to jump-start!”
“That delay was ten seconds long.” Eliot’s whisper doubled—next to Gram, in his comm. “Something’s changed and I don’t think it’s on our end.”
Hers was a logical conclusion and, unfortunately, correct. Not fifteen steps behind Empra was a face caricatured in countless Academy restroom stalls. The mustache that made these illustrations so comical was gone, but there was no mistaking the militant frown beneath.
“Blistering bluebox barnacles!” Imogen recognized the man, too. “What’s Instructor Marin doing here?”
It wasn’t just their disgruntled instructor. An entire Corps unit trailed Empra at a distance. Gram recognized three other men from Central’s hallways, canvassing the crowd in togas loose enough to hide their stunrod holsters. Familiarity went both ways. Instinct urged Gram to run, but his Recorder training held strong. Hauling tail would only jerk eyes in their direction.
“Duck,” he advised Eliot.
The crowd of fifty thousand went from bane to boon as the pair bent their knees, disappearing into a mill of humanity. The flow of feet swept Gram and Eliot down a few more arches, out of the Corps unit’s watchful eye.
“We are so fexed!” Imogen hissed. “So, so fexed. How did the Corps know to come to this exact moment?”
“Agent Ackerman.” Eliot’s face was grim as they ducked into entrance LXII. “He must’ve tipped them off. Crux! How are we supposed to get Empra to the Ab Aeterno on time with a whole Corps unit watching her?”
Gram shut his eyes, crunching variables, running scenarios. There was a solution—there had to be…. “The Corps doesn’t want to interfere with Empra. They’re only following her because they want to stop you, Eliot. If you pull a bait-and-chase like you did on the Titanic and draw the Corps away from Empra, I’ll get her back to the Ab Aeterno. If you hand over your pocket universe—”
“I can’t. I’m in the middle of transferring files.” Eliot shook her head. “Vera’s link might not hold up if I run too far, plus I’ll need my jump equipment. I’ll lead Marin and his men as far away from the Ab Aeterno as I can, then teleport back to meet you.”
“You better,” Imogen said. “Aunt Empra needs to say good-bye to Gaius.”
“It’ll happen.” Eliot gave her wig a tug; all was secure, ready for the goose chase that was about to ensue. “Here’s to steady skies, swift feet, and no more surprises.”
Two steps were all it took for Eliot to melt into the crowd. Gram hung back, leaning against arch LXII’s travertine stones. He tilted his head to the aforementioned skies. Blue still, interrupted by a few wisps of white. The Fade had stayed at bay, though Gram knew the odds of a whole heaven holding were shrinking. Any moment this could end.
Imogen saw something different. “Looks like a giant blew dandelion seeds everywhere.”