“Come on, man, one pint,” he said, digging around in his jacket. A pint of beer would cost him half the money in the envelope of cash he’d stolen back from Mac after Chandra shot him, but, just now, it seemed worth it. “I promise, I’ll be good—”
The television hanging above the bar flickered on and Ash froze, hand still shoved down his pocket.
A shadowy figure appeared on the screen. She wore a hood that covered her face, and stood in front of a tattered American flag, a sketchy fox painted on the front of her coat.
“Friends,” Quinn said, in her heavily distorted voice. “Do not attempt to adjust your television. Our broadcast has taken over every channel.”
“You still want that pint?” the bartender asked.
Ash realized he’d frozen, one hand still gripping the cash envelope. He nodded and handed over a slightly damp bill, his eyes never leaving the screen.
Quinn continued. “I come to you this evening with happy news. For the past year, the Black Cirkus has been attempting to uncover the secrets of time travel, secrets that have long been kept from us by the scientist Professor Zacharias Walker.
“Tonight, I am glad to say that Professor Walker has been thwarted. Time travel is ours, at long last.”
All talk in the bar ceased. Someone catcalled, while another called out, “About damn time!”
Ash realized he was holding the cash envelope so tightly that his fingers had started to cramp. He tucked it back into his jacket and began cracking his knuckles.
He’d known the Cirkus could travel through time. Or, at least, he’d suspected. He’d seen their time machine himself, and he’d thought he’d seen Roman and Quinn in 1980, at the Fort Hunter complex.
But he’d never been able to figure out how they were able to go back in time without any exotic matter and, over the last few weeks, he’d been able to push that question to the back of his mind. There’d always been other, more pressing things to focus on.
Not anymore.
“And now, we would like to invite you all to a revel of sorts.” Quinn announced. “Tomorrow evening, the Black Cirkus will host a masquerade at the Fairmont hotel, at seven o’clock pm.
“Join us, and see how we will use time travel to build a better present, a better future. Join the Black Cirkus, and we’ll show you a new and better world.”
The image froze, the broadcast over.
Conversations leaped back to life. Ash heard someone say, “Quinn Fox,” but they sounded excited rather than terrified. A first.
Another added, tone casual, like they were repeating something they weren’t sure they still believed, “But, she’s the cannibal, right?”
And, “Didn’t you hear her? She says she wants to help. To fix things.”
Meanwhile, another conversation seemed to be going on at the same time, this one about the Professor and the Chronology Protection Agency. About him.
“Selfish,” someone was saying. “The group of them, thinking they could keep all that technology for themselves.”
“Time travel should be for everyone,” said someone else. “Quinn Fox will make it right.”
Ash bristled, tuning them out. How quickly people forgot. All Quinn had to do was dangle a carrot on a stick and, all at once, years of Black Cirkus violence was wiped away.
He lifted a hand to his face, remembering the heat of Quinn’s blade on his skin. He’d spoken to her in person only once, while standing on a dock outside the Fairmont.
“We’re leaving,” he’d said, backing away.
And she’d responded, “It’s too late for that.”
And then she’d cut him across the cheek with a freaking dagger.
He could still feel the metal against his skin, the flaring of nerve endings, the way his heart had sputtered with shock, and then adrenaline. Not exactly a good first impression.
And yet, somehow, he was supposed to fall in love with her. Prememories didn’t lie, and Ash had been seeing the same prememory every single time he’d entered an anil for the last year: a girl with white hair in a boat, water spread out around her, white trees interrupting the darkness. She would kiss him, and then she would kill him. He would love her, and she would betray him.
Quinn Fox had white hair. Quinn Fox was that girl.
He closed his eyes, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. His blood pumped hot and fast beneath his skin.
The prememory was real, as real to him as any memory could be. He could still smell the brine and salt smell of the water. He could taste the heat of Quinn Fox’s lips.
He leaned forward without making the conscious decision to do so, one hand reaching for his back pocket. His fingers enclosed the creased and worn leather book and tugged it loose.
The Professor’s old journal looked like hell. Ash must’ve thumbed through its pages a hundred times over the last three weeks, reading and rereading his mentor’s entries, looking for hidden meaning behind the anecdotes and sketches and jotted notes. He no longer believed there was a way to keep his prememory from coming true, but he would have settled for something simpler. Advice, maybe. Or a promise that everything was going to be okay.
He exhaled through his teeth, wishing that the Professor were here, sitting on the barstool next to him.
But the Professor was dead. He’d died at Fort Hunter complex, on March 17, 1980. All that was left of him was this worn, leather journal.
Ash paused as he flipped through the book, finding a ragged edge of paper peeking out of the journal’s binding. It looked like a page was missing but, when he looked closer, he saw that there were several sheets of paper ripped out, almost like someone had removed a whole entry. He ran his thumb through the torn pages, frowning. Had the Professor ripped them out himself? Why?
The bartender was suddenly before him, again, looking dubious. “Look, man, I let you have one, but—”
“I’ll take another,” Ash said, cutting him off. When the bartender frowned, he fished the cash envelope out of his jacket pocket and slammed it on the bar. What was the point of savings if he was going to die in less than a week?
Cautiously, like he thought it might contain something poisonous, the bartender opened the envelope, one eyebrow raising, appreciatively, as he counted the bills inside. Nothing made friends like good, hard cash. He slipped the envelope into his pocket and turned around to pour Ash a beer.
“Keep ’em coming,” Ash said.
LOG ENTRY—AUGUST 27, 1899
16:24 HOURS
JUST OUTSIDE COLORADO SPRINGS
I have to write quickly, so this will be a rather short entry. Nikola Tesla has just run back to the house in the hopes of finding a bottle of bourbon, and I don’t want to be scribbling away in a notebook upon his return.
He’s a bit paranoid, Nikola . . . I don’t want to give him reason to be suspicious.
I’m currently sitting on a wooden stool inside of his experimental station outside Colorado Springs. The main workspace is little more than a monstrous barn, dominated by the largest Tesla coil I’ve ever seen. There’s other equipment, too. Generators and light bulbs, among other things, but very little in terms of what you’d call “creature comforts.” I asked Nikola when he broke for meals or, indeed, what he actually ate, and he looked at me like I actually was a martian.