Meredith McCardle - The Eighth Guardian

“Rule number three,” Zeta says. “Absolutely no personal missions. If you think you can make a quick buck by going back in time and betting on last year’s Super Bowl, think again. That’s part of the reason for the tracker. You go on an unauthorized mission, you’ll find yourself sitting in a jail cell.”

Zeta opens the door for me, and I step out into the too-bright hallway. “Do you understand these three rules?”

“Why can’t we go back and fix any mistakes?”

Zeta looms in front of me. He’s not nearly as tall as Alpha—Zeta only has a few inches on me—but it feels as if he’s towering over me. If he’s trying to make me feel intimidated, it’s kinda working. “Wormhole restrictions.” His tone makes it clear that the questions are over. “Now, do you understand these three rules?”

I nod.

“Good,” he says. “Because it’s the only time I’m going to tell them to you.” We walk down the hall to the door I went through yesterday. Zeta points up at the gold-plated plaque that hangs above it.

“Enhancement, not alteration,” he says. “That is what we do. We enhance the past; we do not alter it.”

It seems like a funny line to me—where enhancement ends and alteration begins—but before I can say this, Zeta punches in a code, and the door opens. Overwhelming, all-encompassing blackness is waiting on the other side.

“What is this?” I ask, pointing.

“A door.”

Thanks.

“What’s in there?” I ask.

“It’s a gravity chamber.” Zeta’s voice is bored, as if it’s obvious. I back away from the door, but Zeta grabs my arm and squeezes, and once again it’s clear to me that I don’t have control over this situation. I look down the hallway, up in the corners and crevices; and, sure enough, there are cameras everywhere, stalking my every move. “This room is a recent addition. Gravity helps ease the physical effects on the body that Chronometric Augmentation can wreak. It slows us down. Less stress on the bones and joints.”

My mind can’t help flashing to Epsilon, the woman in the wheelchair. Her body has been broken beyond repair. Is it because of Chronometric Augmentation? Is that why the other members of Annum Guard are all dead? Their bodies couldn’t handle the physical trauma?

Now I’m not so sure I want to do this, even though my options are either climbing the ranks to find out the one thing I’ve always wanted to know or life imprisonment.

Zeta pushes me toward the door. “You first.” He takes hold of my watch and presses the top button so the lid pops open. Then he hands it back. “Program it. We’re going to March 5, 1770.”

I hesitate before taking it. But I have to do this. I owe this to my dad. To his memory. And to my mom. I failed her once. I can’t do it again.

I spin the dial. Year first. We’re going back to before the American Revolution. That’s a lot of spins around the watch. Next is month. It’s October here and March there, so I guess that’s seven spins back. Then the day. Seventeen spins backward. Zeta is standing next to me, staring at me. Like he wants me to hurry up. And now I’ve lost count. Was that seventeen spins or only sixteen?

“Ready?” he asks.

I have no idea. Seventeen or sixteen? Why didn’t I focus? I hate myself in this moment. I spin the day dial back one more click and nod my head at Zeta.

“Go,” he says.

I take a cautious step forward, then inhale. Let’s do this.

“Go,” I repeat. I leap into the room and snap the lid of the watch face shut.

It’s as if the floor is there one moment, and the next it’s whisked from under me. I fall, and my heart flies into the back of my throat, and I choke on it. I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. I fall and fall and fall, as if I’m on an endless roller coaster.

And then my knees slam into the floor of the broom closet. I gasp and slap my palms to the ground. This is what makes Chronometric Augmentation easier? What the hell was it like before?

I push up. The closet is completely empty. There’s not a whole lot of room in this closet, so maybe I’m supposed to wait outside. Or maybe I’m supposed to wait right here and Zeta will be pissed if I leave. He doesn’t strike me as a warm-and-fuzzy kind of guy.

Time passes. Several minutes. Too much time. Enough time to make it clear that I’m not supposed to wait here in the closet. I turn the door handle and brace myself to find an angry Zeta waiting for me on the other side, but all I see when I open the door is a field. What the—?

But then there’s a loud swoooosh! It’s coming from above. I look up, and Zeta appears beside me, out of nowhere. He pulls me back and slams the door shut, trapping us in this little broom closet.

Zeta turns on me with angry eyes. “Tell me, did you fail second-grade math?”

My heart skips a beat. “I . . . what?”

“You’re in March 4, 1770, not March 5. Can you really not handle a simple task like counting backward? Do you need me to program your watch for you like you’re a toddler?”

I bristle because I’m still tired, so my fuse is short; but I also shrink inside myself at the same time. This is partly my fault for not paying better attention when setting the watch. I hate messing up. Hate hate hate when I do things wrong.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter.

“I had to project to March 5, realize you weren’t there, then project back to the present, trudge upstairs, activate your tracker, and figure out where you were. You’re wasting my time.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Get it right the first time. Reset your watch. One day forward. Do you think you can handle that?”

I don’t respond. Instead I pull out my watch, turn the day knob once, and shut it. I brace for the fall, but it doesn’t come. Instead I’m pulled up like someone tosses me in the air, and less than a second later I’m on my knees in the same broom closet. Zeta lands on his feet next to me.

“Ready now?” He straightens his powdered wig and stomps his buckled shoes. He doesn’t wait for a reply but instead opens the door and walks out.

I linger behind and try to figure out the sensations of projecting. Why did I feel as if I was being sucked up that time and not falling? It happened before, when I left 1874 to go back to the present and—oh. I get it. You fall into the past. You’re whisked up to the future.

Zeta clears his throat, and I shake my head and jump out of the closet. And then I stop in my tracks as colonial Boston spreads out before me. And I do mean spreads out. I’m not looking into an alleyway. I’m staring at open land. There are cows where the Public Garden will be one day. There’s no Back Bay. There’s . . . water. It’s an actual bay. I look out over Boston Common. There’s no looming state house with a giant dome. There are no skyscrapers, no downtown shopping district. Instead, in the distance I see the Old State House. That’s where the Boston Massacre took place. It’s right there, unobstructed from view.

There isn’t a row of brownstones either. Just this one house, set here on what will one day become Beacon Street, one of the most densely populated streets in Boston. I mean, the cheesy Cheers replica will be going in right down the street, a tourist trap for the unwary. The house we’re standing in front of is tall and wide, with brown, stone walls and a balcony off the front.

“What is this?” I ask. “Where’s the brownstone?”

Zeta doesn’t blink. “The brownstones are still about a hundred years away. This is Hancock Manor. And that”—he points across the Common to the Old State House—“is our destination. You are to listen to me and do exactly as I tell you, understand?”