Earth & Sky (The Earth & Sky Trilogy) (7 page)

“At least I get to have this now and then,” he goes on, “Everyone else, everyone who’s not a Traveler—my parents, my brother, my friends—if things keep on the same way, they won’t get to see or feel anything like this, ever. But when we destroy the time field generator, all the scientists up there will
have
to see it’s time to focus on improving our situation on Kemya instead. So we can all have a world like this eventually.”

I try to picture a planet without trees, without sun, without space. He makes his home sound horrible. Why would his scientists rather poke at us than fix the problems on their own planet, if it’s that bad?

The question must look like skepticism on my face. Before I can ask it, Win adds hurriedly, “And there would be some immediate benefits, for me and my family. Thlo’s going to have a lot of influence in the Council when this is over. If I’ve earned her respect, we’ll have so many more options. We’re not considered worthy of very much right now. I’m lucky they even let me into Traveler training—there’s no way I’ll advance very far unless I do something big enough for them to take me seriously.”

He lowers his gaze, twisting the strap of his satchel between his hands. I wonder if he’s embarrassed to admit his family’s standing, or that his motives aren’t entirely unselfish. The funny thing is, the admission shakes loose my last bit of doubt. He didn’t have to tell me that. He could have pretended it was all big heroics. If he were pretending.

In a way we want the same thing. To live like people are supposed to, in a world that’s
right
. I don’t know what’s happened to his planet that things are so bad there, but I know what it’s like to feel at odds with your surroundings, to have nothing you can count on, and I can hear it echoed in his voice. I know I’d do just about anything to fix that.

“She’ll be pretty impressed if you bring her this weapon all by yourself, yeah?”

“I’ll say.” He chuckles, and looks back up at me. “So you’ll check the books to see if you notice anything?”

Saving the world by going to the library. It doesn’t sound as grand as Jeanant’s speech, but I’m not sure I’m ready to handle anything grand just yet.

“I guess I can give it a shot.” I get up. “I can check the library after school today. Assuming your Enforcers don’t zap me first.”

It’s an attempt at a joke, but it comes out flat. Mainly because I’m pretty sure the pale woman
will
zap me if she happens to spot me again.

As I turn to go, Win stands. “Wait,” he says. “Here. You should take this.”

He pulls off his blazer and pushes up the sleeve of his T-shirt. A thin silvery band is wrapped around his upper arm. It looks like solid metal, but when he tugs it, it splits apart into a long strip that wobbles like a piece of linguine. He offers it to me.

“Put it around your arm, or your ankle,” he says. “If anyone who’s not from Earth gets within about a hundred feet of you, it’ll start vibrating, and it won’t stop until they’re farther away again. It’s how I knew the Enforcers had arrived outside the coffee shop yesterday before we saw them. They’ll be patrolling the city—this’ll help you stay out of their way.”

The material feels both soft as silk and firm as steel between my fingers. How is that even possible?

Aliens
, I think, and for the first time, it’s not followed by the urge to laugh. I can’t think of another explanation that fits.

I slide the strip around my right ankle. As soon as the tips touch, they fuse together. The soft metal band lies smooth and still against my skin.

“It’s not doing anything right now, and you’re within a hundred feet,” I point out as I pull my sock up over it.

“It’s tuned to me,” Win says with a little smile. “It wouldn’t work very well if I was setting it off myself the whole time.”

“Right.” Because this is his—he gave it to me off his arm rather than offering a spare. Which means he probably doesn’t have a spare. He did say he doesn’t have a lot of equipment. I pause with my hands still by my ankle. “Don’t
you
need it?”

“I can get away faster than you can, if the Enforcers find me,” he says, patting his satchel. “And you could be the key to tracking Jeanant’s clues—I wouldn’t risk something happening to you. I’ll be in here most of the time anyway.”

Waiting for me to report back. Like it all rests on me. I straighten up. “Don’t you have other jobs to do?”

“Not exactly. Mostly it’s just keeping an eye on things: following the news broadcasts, scanning the Internet. Just in case.”

“While everyone else is in France.”

His shrug looks forced. “Someone needed to be here. I’m the newest recruit. That’s the way it goes.”

The newest recruit and, from what he said, one his people expect less of for some family-related reason. From the tension in his stance, I wonder if he suspects it’s more the latter. “Well, thanks,” I say, glancing down at my ankle.

Win lays his hand over mine, where I’ve rested it on the top of my chair. “Thank
you
,” he says. “It’s because of you I’ve got a chance at solving this.”

A tingle passes over my skin. His hand is warm, but it’s not only that. It feels, inexplicably, more
there
, more real, than the edge of the chair under my palm, than the sleeve of my jacket brushing my wrist. As if his fingers might sink right into mine.

The thought makes me twitch, and Win jerks back.

“It’s okay,” I say. “This is just all so weird still. There’s something about you, and the Enforcers yesterday too. I guess it’s an . . . alien thing.”

He frowns. “What kind of ‘alien thing’?”

“I don’t know,” I say, waving my hand dismissively. I feel awkward now, like I’ve just pointed out an ugly birthmark I was supposed to pretend not to notice. “You just look, and feel, like you’re more here? More solid than everything else. It’s not a big deal.”

I’m ready to go, but the look on Win’s face stops me.

“Oh,” he says. “You can sense that too?”

A chill crawls up my back. “What? What is it?”

“One more reason it’s important that we stop the shifts soon.” He seems to search for the words. “You know . . . videotapes? Earthlings used to use those? And if you recorded footage from one to another, and then recorded a copy of that copy onto a third tape, and kept going— every time the video gets copied, it loses something. It starts to get fuzzy?”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking of the static on my grandparents’ home videos.

“It’s kind of the same thing with time shifts,” Win says. “Every time the world gets rewritten, the atoms, and their bonds, break down. So minutely you can’t even measure it when it’s just once or twice. But it’s been building up for thousands of years. The balance is starting to tip—more earthquakes, more droughts, more disease, more instability in every way.” His voice drops. “The fabric that holds life on this planet together is breaking apart.”

9.

I
leave Win and his hotel room behind as I head to school, but I can’t shake the memory of his words. Morning mist lingers on the streets, hazing the city. I find myself touching things I pass—railings, telephone poles, tree trunks—to confirm that they’re still real. To reassure myself with their solid surface under my fingers.

Win’s people have supposedly been shifting our planet’s history for thousands of years. It’s held together this long. It’s not as though we’re all going to disintegrate with one more tweak.

But I can’t help thinking of all the natural disasters that have hit the news in the last few years. Catastrophic climate change, new strains of flu, tsunamis and hurricanes.
The balance is starting to tip.
How fast will it tip all the way over, now that it’s on the verge? Everything Win does, every shift his group of rebels makes, every ripple the Enforcers cause while trying to catch them, those are all one more rewrite, aren’t they? I might have already relived this walk to school a dozen times, and not know it.

The idea makes me queasy. I reach into my pocket for my bracelet and spin through all ten beads. After I’ve finished, I keep holding it pressed against my palm, as if it can anchor me to this place. This now.

Maybe I can do more this time. More than escaping into my numbers and rituals and waiting for the unpleasantness to be over. I don’t want to stand by and let the world fall apart.

And if Win’s right and I can notice some clue in the past—if finding it for him means he and his group can put an end to all the shifts, all the rewrites, and the
wrong
feelings will go away—then once I’ve done this, I wouldn’t have to pretend to be normal anymore. I’d just
be
normal.

My mind trips back to Jeanant’s speech.
We can become something so incredible that we’ll set all our lives on a completely different course
. . .

I hope that’s true.

The sight of heavier traffic up ahead jerks me back to the present. To get to school from the Garden Inn, I have to cross Michlin Street, where the Enforcers chased us yesterday.

I stick to the side streets until I’m five blocks past the cafe, and then dart across, peering up and down the road. No sign of the pale woman or her henchman. I head into the residential neighborhood on the other side and veer around another corner. As soon as the shops are out of view, I relax. Okay, home free!

I’ve taken two more steps when the band around my ankle starts to shiver.

I flinch, and then freeze in place. There’s a man coming out of a house down the street with his preteen daughter, but it seems unlikely that Win’s Enforcers would be traveling with kids. He said the range for the alarm was about a hundred feet. The alien, whoever it is, could be out of sight around an intersection or down a driveway.

My arm twitches where the pale woman shot me. What will they do to me if they see me again?

The band’s vibration hits a higher pitch. I’m going to guess that means they’re coming closer. I spin around. I don’t know which way they’re coming from. The trees and shrubs look far too exposed, but halfway down the block, I spot two cars parked close together near a garbage can left on the sidewalk.

I sprint over and duck between the cars. With a yank, I drag the bin in front of the gap between them. Now I’ve got cover on three sides, at least.

The quivering at my ankle has become a silent but frantic buzz. I crouch there between the bumpers, the sour smell of old garbage mixing with the oily scent of the cars. A gate creaks. An SUV rumbles by.

Brisk footsteps thump against the concrete, heading toward me.

I sink lower, clutching my bracelet. All I need is for them to walk right past me. Just walk on by, and everything will be fine.

The steps sound as if they’re almost on top of me when they come to an abrupt halt. For a few seconds, there’s only distant traffic noise.

I peek through the narrow space between the garbage can and the maroon sedan’s fender, and my pulse stutters. It’s the man who was with the pale woman yesterday—I’m almost sure of it. My attention was mostly on her, but he’s wearing a similar peacoat, his navy blue. And he stands out against the lawn behind him as if he’s in color and it’s only black and white. Even if he’s a different guy, I’m going to guess he’s not human.

His head is turning, tracking something across the street. His hand slides under his coat to where I suspect his weapon is hidden. I tilt over just enough to see down the opposite sidewalk. A young woman with light brown hair is ambling along as her Yorkie sniffs the lawns.

I glance back at the man in time to see his expression shift from wariness to disappointment. His hand drops from his side. He thought she was someone he might need to shoot, but—

Someone tall, young, and female with light brown hair. I bite my lip. The woman is a little older than me, and her hair’s longer and more ashy, but from a distance, considering he only caught a glimpse of me before, I can see how he wouldn’t be sure.

They’re definitely not just looking for Win.

I hunch down, my cheek against my knees. If the man looks over the garbage can . . .

His footsteps pass me, and then stop again. But it’s only a quick pause before he’s walking on. I stay there, in a tight little ball, as the sound of his steps fades away. The metal band’s quivering dies down with them. After a minute, it goes still. I count out another sixty seconds before I peek over the trunk of the car in the direction the man went. He’s gone.

I take a slightly roundabout route the rest of the way to school, jogging along the streets and then making a dash for the front doors. The alarm band doesn’t shiver again. Inside, I lean against the wall and catch my breath. I feel as wrung out as if I did spend the last hour at cross-country practice.

It hasn’t even been a whole hour yet. I wasn’t with Win that long, and even after the close call with that Enforcer, I’m here twenty minutes early.

I kind of want to slip into the bathroom, shut myself in a stall, and just sit and breathe undisturbed for a while. But as I peel myself off the wall, my eyes catch on the sign down the hall above the library door.

The sooner I find what Win needs, the sooner he can move on with his mission—and take the Enforcers with him.

Pulling myself together, I head in and go straight to the history section. France. Times of rebellion. I can’t remember exactly which ones I looked at for my essay. There are a few books that focus on the first, and best known, French Revolution, and several others that cover the general period. I slide out one, and then another, flipping through them.

Nothing about these strikes me. Well, there’s still the public library. I often go straight there for my research, because it has a much bigger collection.

And if I don’t find anything there either? I can already imagine Win’s face falling. He was so sure I could help. But maybe my sensitivity won’t do us, or the world, any good after all. Maybe we’ll both have to just keep standing by, waiting and hoping someone else can make it all better.

That possibility haunts me all the way to law class. It takes the puzzled look on Angela’s face when I drop into the seat beside her to tug me out of my head.

“Everything okay, Sky?” she asks. “Bree told me you missed practice this morning.”

My stomach clenches. Nothing is okay. And while Angela’s taken plenty of my oddness in stride, I suspect time-traveling aliens would cross way over the line.

I look away. The football guys are bantering in the back of the room. Jaeda is watching them, her chin tucked into the wide collar of her turtleneck and her eyebrows raised in amusement. Daniel’s sitting in his spot by the far wall, tapping the end of his pen against his lips as his neighbor points out something in the textbook.

At the sight of him, it hits me. Every
wrong
feeling I’ve had . . . It was a sign things had been different before. So that time, that time when he leaned in and the streetlamp freaked me out—there was another time when it didn’t? When he kissed me? And then?

Who knows what could have happened, in that other version of my life?

Of course, the other version, without any shifts, would probably have involved all of us blowing up two days ago.

But we didn’t. Nothing blew up, no one died, Daniel was never my boyfriend. This is the life I have now. And as far as anyone else knows, as far as Angela knows, it’s the only life we’ve ever had.

I meet my best friend’s eyes again. Even if I thought she’d believe me, why would I want her to feel as awful as I do, knowing what I do?

“I woke up with a headache,” I lie, hating how easy it is. “It took a while for the painkillers to kick in. But I’m fine now.”

That crease appears on her forehead. Before she can dig deeper, I grasp for a change of subject.

“So are you putting us to work again at lunch? The dance decorations are looking great so far.”

“You really think so?” she says, brightening. “We’re almost done. I want to get some amazing pictures on Friday.”

“It’s going to be awesome.”

Our conversation is cut off when Ms. Vincent strides in, but I feel Angela eyeing me all through class, like she’s checking for signs that I’m not okay after all. So I play the best
perfectly fine
I have in me. When all five of us gather in the art room during lunch hour, I laugh along with Lisa’s dramatic tales of her twin brothers’ latest mischief-making and Evan’s dry asides. I cheer when Bree tells me how Rob from cross-country complimented her on a good run after practice, and join Angela in insisting she ask him out already. I glue more flowers and paint lightbulbs crimson as the air fills with tangy fumes.

But no matter how hard I try to lose myself in our chatter, I’m not totally there. Part of my mind is back with Win, listening to him explain how the fabric of the world is crumbling. When I cross my ankles, I notice the faint weight of the alarm band. How long will I make it before it starts shivering again?

“Lisa and Evan and I are heading over to Michlin Street to grab some pie,” Bree tells me as we’re leaving computer science, our last class of the day. “You want to come with?”

The memory of yesterday’s frantic run flickers through my mind. “Oh,” I say. “I— I have this lab report I really need to get done. I wish I could.”

She gives me a little nudge. “You work too hard, you know. Take a break.”

“I will,” I say. “Tomorrow.” Assuming the world’s still in one piece then.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” she warns me, smiling, before turning down the hall toward her locker.

Angela’s holed up in the art room putting the finishing touches on her decorations, so I don’t have to make excuses to anyone else before I hurry out. I speed walk all the way to the local library branch. Thankfully, wherever the Enforcers are right now, their paths don’t cross mine. I dart past the library’s double doors unmolested.

Inside, I meander past the rows of wooden tables and the staircase with its worn gray carpet. A couple of day-care attendants are herding a group of murmuring elementary-age kids toward the children’s section. I scoot past them to the nonfiction area. The catalog numbers roll out across the yellowed labels as I venture into the deepening quiet between the shelves. Here’s history . . . History of Europe . . . History of France. My hand stills over the plastic-sheathed spines.

None of them looks especially familiar. I know I paged through a lot of books trying to find good sources for my essay, hoping to get a couple that weren’t too dry so I could actually enjoy reading them while I did my research. I brought a big stack of them over to one of the tables and evaluated them one by one, checking the table of contents, reading the first few pages . . .

My memory drifts back to the uneven pile of books, the quiet conversations around me, the rough cushion of the chair—and a sliver of panic jabs me. There. I was sitting there. A thin musty-smelling volume open in front of me, comfortingly old; a prick of betrayal when a string of words on a page jarred loose a chorus of
wrong, wrong, wrong
.

I stare at the books in front of me. There
was
something, then. A shift, the clue Win needs.

Which one was it? What if it’s not here?

Some part of my brain obviously hasn’t let go of that unanticipated betrayal by history, because as I step back, scanning the shelves, my gaze snags on a tall, thin spine, burgundy with white lettering.
The Further Revolutions of France.

That one. I grabbed it, thinking it might be interesting to focus on the later, less-studied conflicts, on the ways the first revolution didn’t actually solve all the problems the people hoped it would. My fingers clench before reaching for it.

I’ve never deliberately provoked a
wrong
feeling before. It’s made a lot more sense to avoid them. Even though it’s just some words on a page, even though I now have reason to believe that the feelings don’t come from some flaw in my brain but a real perception, my skin’s gone tight. I stalk away into a secluded corner in the midst of the stacks and sit on the floor, opening the book on my lap.

I skim the table of contents and flip to the introduction. My eyes dart straight to the second paragraph.

Though France’s second and third revolutions are commonly identified as two separate events, it is clear that the July Revolution of 1830, the so-called Three Glorious Days, was in many ways a direct precursor to the . . .

The “Three” leaps out and smacks me in the gut. I blink, a ghost of my previous discomfort passing through me. It didn’t feel like a betrayal just because history is usually safe. It felt like a betrayal because three is supposed to be my number, the number that drives the
wrong
ness away. But this time,
it
was wrong.

Because someone changed it.

I shake off my uneasiness and push myself to my feet. I have to show Win. Maybe this is all he needs.

I check out the book on autopilot, already counting the blocks to the Garden Inn in my head. I’m so focused on that, and on how I’ll avoid the Enforcers if they’re still patrolling, that the hand that touches my shoulder as I head out the door catches me completely by surprise. I whirl around, the book slipping in my hands so I have to clutch it to keep it from falling. And there is Win, grinning sheepishly at me.