He’d been present for the first reunion between Zora and her father and it had gone . . . not well was somewhat of an understatement. Zora had spent the last year wondering where in time her father had vanished, and the last four weeks certain that he was dead. Then, just a few hours ago, he’d walked back into her life, not dead, not even close.
Ash could still remember the emotion he’d seen play out on his closest friend’s face when she saw him. Zora’s expression had hemorrhaged between hope and despair, joy and confusion. And, because it was Zora, it had quickly morphed into anger, like so many of her emotions often did. The Professor had tried to hug his daughter, but she’d only crossed her arms in front of her chest and said, her voice deadpan, “You’re late.”
Now, the Professor grinned at his daughter, eyes glistening, like he was looking at the sun. She stared back, and Ash could see that she was trying very hard to maintain her stony disposition. It wasn’t working. The tip of her mouth was curling into a grin, no matter how she tried to stop it. It was a strange expression to see on Zora’s face. Ash liked it.
Zora saw him staring. “Shut up,” she murmured, and tried to bite the smile back. When it still didn’t work, she groaned and turned to face the window.
“Everything went swimmingly,” the Professor said. “The exotic matter has been administered.” He nodded at the counter, where the gun that once contained the remaining EM now sat, empty. Dorothy glanced at it but said nothing. Everything was in place.
“We should probably hurry,” Ash said. “Mac thinks we’re both dead, but he’s bound to figure out the truth when he goes to the back of his workshop and sees that we’re all missing.”
“Would that really be so bad?” Chandra asked. “The Cirkus turned on him, right? He doesn’t have any power any longer.”
“Their betrayal depends on them thinking that he’s failed, that he’s killed us and lost them their very last chance of getting to use time travel for themselves,” Dorothy explained. “We’ve bought ourselves just enough time to get out of here before Mac sends the rest of the Cirkus after us.”
“Not to worry. We’ll be gone by then,” said the Professor. “Only one question remains. Where would you all like to go?”
Part Five
The end is in the beginning and lies far ahead.
—Ralph Ellison
39
MAY 3, 2082
Light pressed into Roman’s eyelids, the sensation so strong it was almost like physical touch. It coaxed him from the darkness of sleep, pulling him back up, up to . . .
Where? His eyes were still closed, but he could tell that he was lying on something. There was a stiff, cool pressure beneath him, and the faint weight of something draped over his body, a sheet or a light blanket. Behind him, the sound of distant voices, footsteps. He inhaled, and his nose filled with the smell of beer and fried food.
A bar, then. He was in a bar.
Open your eyes, he told himself, but the command had no effect on his physical body. His eyelids felt glued shut, two strips of flesh held tight by something sticky. He tried again and, this time, a slight groan escaped his lips. Light burst across his retinas. The brightness was overwhelming. Pain shot straight through his skull, shocking him so much that he closed his eyes again, on instinct, grimacing.
He took deep, even breaths through his nose, waiting for his heartbeat to steady before he tried again.
The room was long and narrow, with a single window on the far side, a thin curtain hanging over it. He was lying on a bed, and he appeared to be wearing his own clothes, but they were bloodstained, dirty.
He tried to lift his head, but pain prickled up his neck, and he let it drop back down onto the pillow, eyelids fluttering.
Something very bad had happened. He knew that for sure. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what it was.
He’d expected to find nothing, empty space and darkness, but the memory was still there, right where he’d left it. He reached for it, and it was like a current dragging him downriver, gasping. Once he started the memory playing, there was nothing he could do to stop it again.
He saw the time machine and Quinn. Mac. The future. The gunshot.
A hum rose in his skull, the sound blocking out all other noise. His fingers curled toward his palms, fingernails digging into skin. The room felt very small and very dark, and a terror like Roman had never felt before took hold of him.
He’d been shot.
His hand leaped to his chest, nervously, searching for a bullet hole. He found a bandage, still damp with blood. His breathing started to steady.
“Well, look who decided to wake up,” said a voice.
Roman eased his eyes open and saw a girl standing just inside the door of his room. She was wearing light-wash jeans and a white sweatshirt, hair falling over her forehead in soft tangles.
She smiled at him as she came inside. “We were thinking of taking bets on whether you’d ever wake up at all. My money was on yes, but Pop says I’m an optimist.”
Roman tried to speak. “Where . . . where . . .” His voice wasn’t working like it was supposed to. The inside of his mouth tasted strange. Stale. Like he hadn’t brushed his teeth for a very long time. And, damn he was thirsty. His tongue felt like straw.
He swallowed, trying to force saliva down his scratchy throat.
“You are in the lovely town of New Seattle, at a charming little bar called the Dead Rabbit,” the girl was telling him. “We found you
