“Tina—my best friend?” That thought alone was enough to boggle the mind. She couldn’t imagine having enough in common with the Chief Design Engineer to have a conversation about. “And I know for a fact that Al Calavicci has never given her the time of day. . . .”
“This time.”
Verbeena opened her mouth as if to protest, and then closed it again. She was trying to grasp the implications of what she was hearing, as well as the multiple definitions of “time.”
“Ziggy,” she said at last, “when did all this happen?”
“When the Admiral was last in the Imaging Chamber,” the computer said. “It doesn’t always happen that way, of course. Dr. Beckett can—and does—change the time line at any time. His being in the past is the first change to begin with.”
Verbeena laid the pencil down, very carefully, and knitted her fingers together. “At any time,” she repeated flatly. “Sc while we’re talking here, he could change things?”
“That’s correct.”
The doctor stilled a frisson of fear. “And would I know? Would I be aware of the change?”
“No. Because the ‘you’ you would be in that moment would have a different history. Surely you realized this Doctor. When Dr. Beckett puts things right, he changes the future. Not just for a particular individual, but for everyone that person touches. Changes . . . change things. For every one. Everywhere.”
For everyone? Verbeena wondered. For me? Is Ziggy saying I’m different too ? The thought made her mind reel, as if the world around her had shuddered, settled into a slightly different, more awkward and definitely uncomfortable configuration. She couldn’t accept it. If what the computer said
was true, then nothing—nothing was dependable any more. “Have you told me this before, Ziggy?” she whispered. “Yes,” the computer said softly. “Often.”
Verbeena closed her eyes, took a deep breath.
Opened them again.
“How do you know?” she challenged. “Don’t you have a new history too? How can you be aware that anything is different?”
“Because of the nature of the Project and whatever went wrong with it,” the computer said, almost sadly, “I don’t participate in time, Dr. Beeks. I observe it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sitting at the dining room table, moving the silverware randomly back and forth and down and up, Bethica heard the crunch of gravel, saw beams of light stab through the front windows and probe the gauze curtains as Rimae’s station wagon pulled into the driveway. She sat unmoving, staring at the patterns in the grain of the maple table, listening to the sound of the engine being killed, the car door being opened. After a measurable pause the door slammed, and footsteps came up the walkway.
“Hey there, sweetie. Where’s Davey? Is that dinner?” Rimae dropped a large purse beside the sofa in the front room, went to the liquor cabinet, and fixed herself a drink. She took a long swallow, looked at the glass, and made a face. “You’d think this stuff would taste better, wouldn’t you?”
Bethica didn’t look up. “Davey ate already. He’s back in his room, looking at his Superman pictures.”
Rimae gave her an odd look at her tone and sauntered into the kitchen. She glanced into the frying pan. “Looks good.”
“It’s all gunked up together,” Bethica said. “I have to throw it out.”
Rimae sighed and sipped. “I’m just batting a thousand today, aren’t I?” she asked the ceiling. “Mother of the Year, that’s me. Late again.”
“It’s okay, Rimae.” Bethica got up and started rummaging in the cabinets for something to put the spaghetti sauce in.
“Well, did you eat, anyway?” Rimae asked.
She hesitated, glanced at the table with its betrayingly clean utensils. “Uh, I’m not really hungry.”
Rimae took a last swallow of her drink and looked at her through narrowed eyes. “You sure about that, honey? You look a little peaked.”
Bethica nodded, busying herself with the dishes.
Rimae sighed theatrically. “Well, okay. I’m too tired to argue about it. Besides, you’re putting on some weight. I don’t guess it’s going to hurt you to miss one meal.”
Bethica shook her head, agreeing, and went on scraping out the stainless steel frying pan. She’d gotten sick twice from the smell of frying meat. She was feeling nauseated again at the sight of the cooling sauce.
She couldn’t get sick now. Rimae would figure it out in a second, and then all hell would break loose.
She couldn’t keep it a secret forever. She needed to talk to Kevin, and she’d better do it soon. Maybe at the party tomorrow night; she could get him away from the guys, from Rita, long enough to talk to him. Tell him. Figure out what to do. He was a jerk, but he was smart. Besides, it was all his fault, really.
“Honey, I think I’m just going to go to bed, okay? I’m really beat.”
“Sure. G’night.”
Her foster mother’s hand brushed her hair, and she gave her a quick peck on the cheek and left her there, staring at the table.
It was always this way. Rimae worked ’til late, and then came home. If she didn’t go straight to bed she stayed up and did paperwork for the bar. She’d do the same thing tomorrow night, and Bethica would wait a half hour or so, go into Rimae’s purse and get the car keys. She hated driving the station wagon, with its blue-and-white “Polar Bar” sign on the door, but she wasn’t the only kid in the regional high school who still took the bus to school. She wasn’t one of the clique with their own cars, and she didn’t date them. It was the dirt wagon or nothing.
So she’d get the car and drive up to the ski run and meet them up there, and she’d get Kevin alone and tell him, and then ask him what to do. What he was going to do.
She stared at her reflection in the bottom of the pan as suds slid down, at the blurred short brown hair and pale face and two great dark blue
