Erasing Time (7 page)

Illegal to turn off the radio? Sheridan shot Taylor a look, but Taylor’s attention was on Jeth. “Where do the cars get their fuel?”

“The energy grid,” Jeth said. “Which mostly relies on solar panels on the dome.” He tapped an illuminated city map on the dashboard. “And the car sensors assure that the cars never hit one another.”

Which probably wasn’t that difficult since the cars only went about twenty miles an hour. Still, Taylor smiled the entire drive, happily asking questions about the car’s engineering and the city’s energy grid—things Sheridan wouldn’t have been interested in even if she understood them.

Sheridan gazed out a window at the passing scenery. The city looked like the inside of some gigantic indoor mall. Instead of grass, beige walkways spread in all directions. Instead of streets, silver railings snaked in between the buildings, supporting endless numbers of identical egg-shaped cars. Where sky should have been, a white opaque material stretched overhead. No sunshine. No stars.

Several of the buildings didn’t have outside walls. Sheridan could see into what looked like a toy store, a clothing store, and a furniture store.

After about fifteen minutes, they pulled into a parking building and the car slid into an empty space in a row of identical cars. As Sheridan climbed out, she asked, “How do you keep track of your car when they all look the same?”

“We don’t,” Echo said. “We use them, then leave them for the next person.”

“How wonderfully social,” Taylor gushed.

The group started across the parking lot. “But what if you go somewhere,” Sheridan said, “and someone takes your car and you’re stranded?”

Jeth pointed to the circular button on a metallic box that he wore on his belt. “You signal you need a car on your comlink, and the closest available one comes to you.”

“How convenient,” Taylor cooed.

They walked inside the building and took an elevator to the seventh floor of the Histocenter. Pictures from history lined the hallways—no, they weren’t pictures, they were more like computer screens. The clouds over Egyptian pyramids rolled across the sky. Flags surrounding the Washington Monument blew in the wind. Napoléon’s eyes followed them and his chest moved up and down, breathing.

Which was sort of creepy.

When they reached room 72C, Jeth paused before pushing the door button. “You’ll like this. We decorated the office with replicas of period pieces in order to create the right atmosphere.”

He pushed the button with a flourish, and the door slid open to reveal a room that looked more like a used furniture store than an office. Sofas of different colors lined three walls. An assortment of coffee tables and dressers were scattered between them. Dark and light wood stood together, Victorian next to Western, and mismatched knickknacks perched everywhere.

Another door stood behind the furniture, and Sheridan wondered where it led. Was this overcrowded room the Wordlab, or was this a lobby with the lab behind the door?

They went inside. Sheridan had expected the musty smell of old things, but it had a crisp smell, like clean laundry.

Taylor twirled around, taking in the room. “It’s lovely. Almost like being at home.”

Jeth proudly pointed out a row of computers that sat on a long desk. “Since historians are part of the intellecturate, we have access to the city’s Infolabs.”

“How wonderful,” Taylor said, and strolled over to a large wooden cabinet with an etched-glass front. Inside, objects were suspended in clear boxes: a cell phone, a watch, a teacup, a computer mouse. “These are antiques now, aren’t they?”

“Yes.” Jeth joined her at the cabinet, admiring his collection. “We keep the artifacts vacuum sealed so they won’t deteriorate. This is my personal collection. Most relics are at the city museum.”

Sheridan knew what had caught Taylor’s eye. A handgun sat on the middle shelf. “Do they still work?” Taylor asked. “The phone, the mouse … the gun?”

“Our technology is incompatible with things from your time. The gun,
pues
, it would need bullets, and they aren’t made anymore. We use laser boxes now.”

“Oh.” Taylor turned from the cabinet as if it didn’t matter. “You’ll have to take us to the museum sometime.” She sent Jeth a dazzling smile. “It will be fascinating to see things from the years we missed.”

Taylor made
happy
look easy. Sheridan sank down beside Echo on a plaid couch by the window. She tried to think of some sort of compliment about the room, but before she could, the door to the hallway slid open.

A young woman with long pink-and-lavender-striped hair stepped through. Except for her pink eyebrows and lips, her tanned face was free of makeup, and two dark-brown eyes glanced back and forth between Taylor and Sheridan with excitement.

She carried a large bag, which she dropped onto one of the coffee tables, and then she glided over to the group, as graceful as a dancer. “Are these the time riders?” Her accent didn’t quite mimic twenty-first-century English but was close enough to be understandable.

“Sheridan, Taylor”—Jeth gestured toward the newcomer—“this is my wordsmith apprentice, Elise.”

The name surprised Sheridan. It was from their time period. But then, names often bridged generations. She would probably run into her share of Marys, Roberts, and Michaels here in the future.

Elise held out her hand to Taylor, as though just remembering it was something people did when meeting.

Taylor shook her hand. “Delighted.”

Elise dropped Taylor’s hand and glanced around the room. “Really? I thought there was plenty of light in here, but I can brighten it for you.”

“Elise,” Echo said with a hint of amusement, “in the old twenties
delighted
meant ‘happy.’”

“Oh.” Elise turned back to Taylor, a blush warming her features. “Then I’m happy you’re happy.” She fluttered her hand. “You had such strange ways to say things back then. I’ll never get them all crooked.”

“Straight,” Sheridan said.

“Right,” Elise said. “I knew the saying had something to do with direction.” Still smiling, Elise put her hand across her heart and sighed. “This is so
fantástico
. I wish Joseph could have been here.”

The statement brought an immediate silence to the wordsmiths. Echo winced. Jeth frowned, and even Elise, who’d said the sentence, turned somber. Her lips pressed together, and she blinked several times to keep tears from her eyes.

“Joseph was my other son,” Jeth said. “He knew the twenty-first century better than any of us. He died a month ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Sheridan said, and Taylor added, “How hard for you all.”

Echo stared at the floor and didn’t say anything.

Jeth changed the subject, telling them about the crystals that were implanted in everyone’s wrists. While he spoke, he held up his own for them to see. It was about as big as a penny and pulsed red, blood circulating under its surface. A neurochip inside the crystal kept track of him, his assets, and all other personal data. People purchased things by placing their wrists on deduction machines. Money was obsolete.

Sheridan only half listened. It wasn’t just Taylor’s silences that she could read. She found she could read Echo’s too, and his pained silence during all this meant there was something very wrong about Joseph’s death.

As the conversation went on, Sheridan’s gaze kept returning to the glass cabinet and the gun. She had never touched a gun in her life, but she wanted that one, wanted to feel less vulnerable. There had to be some way to make bullets. After all, the wordsmiths had replicated furniture and knickknacks from her time period; why not bullets?

During a lull, she said, “I was wondering …” then tried to think of a way to ask her question without sounding like she planned on shooting someone.

Everything she thought of sounded suspicious, and now the wordsmiths were all watching her, waiting for her question.

Sheridan shifted in her seat. “I was wondering about the badge on Elise’s shirt. What is it?”

The men at the Scicenter had worn them too. White badges, each with a row of electronic numbers. Sheridan had assumed they were some sort of scientist ID badge, because Jeth and Echo didn’t wear them. But then why did Elise have one?

Elise brushed her fingertips across the numbers. “That’s my ranking. It’s like the way people in your day wore gemstones and animal furs to indicate their social status.”

“What?” Sheridan asked.

“No,” Echo said, softly correcting Elise. “Gemstones and animal coats were prevalent in the twentieth century. In the twenty-first century, rank was shown by large homes, designer clothing, and expensive cars.”

It took a moment for Sheridan to understand. “You mean the numbers tell people how much money you have?”

Taylor clapped her hands together and laughed—genuine laughter this time. “That’s the most brilliant thing I’ve ever heard. Why buy things to prove you’re wealthy when you can put your bank account balance on your shirt?”

Elise fidgeted with her badge. “It’s not just how many credits you have. The algorithm also factors in your age, health, IQ, job status, how many friends you have, your friends’ and family’s rankings, and what ratings other people have given you.” She peered at her number—602,257—reading it upside down. “Hmm. I’m up fifteen from yesterday.”

Echo put his feet up on the coffee table, finally relaxing. “Poor 602,241 through 602,256. They must have had a bad day.”

Taylor leaned closer to Elise to look at the badge. “Is that a good rank?”

Elise hesitated, but Echo didn’t. “Yes. There are over seven million people in the city.”

Elise waved his compliment away. “I’m of prime age and I have a lot of friends. They’re generous with their ratings.”

Taylor scanned both Echo’s and Jeth’s shirts. “How come you guys aren’t wearing numbers?”

Elise answered before either of them could. “No one expects you to show your rank if you’re grieving—but,” she added quickly, “their rankings are very good too.”

Jeth gave a short, appreciative laugh. “Elise is being kind—which is why she has so many friends. Wordsmith isn’t a prestigious job, and I enjoy buying antiques too much to keep my credit balance at an impressive level. But I don’t mind. I love my job more than my rank.”

Echo didn’t comment about his rank, although his expression darkened in a way that made Sheridan assume it wasn’t high.

“What a horrible system,” she said, feeling for Echo and Jeth so much that she forgot Taylor’s advice to sound happy. “You shouldn’t judge people by their bank account. Why does anybody go along with it?”

She expected Echo to agree with her, but he only looked at her with curiosity. “Why did the people of your day go along with your system? Excess was success. Why buy things you didn’t need, just to show your status?”

“Not everybody did that,” Sheridan said. “My family had a ten-year-old minivan and a truck that was held together with bailing wire and hope.”

Echo considered this. “You came from a low-ranking family then?”

No. Well, maybe yes, but that hadn’t been the point she was making. Sheridan didn’t answer him.

“I don’t like the badges,” Elise said, straightening hers. “But if you don’t wear one, people assume your rank is sewer sludge. It’s always the people with ranks in six or seven million who refuse to wear badges for philosophical reasons. Or,” she added with a roll of her eyes, “they say they lost their badge. Never believe it when somebody tells you that.” She pulled her comlink from her belt. “Which reminds me—I haven’t rated my friends today.” She busied herself tapping away on the function buttons.

“So,” Sheridan said, drawing out the word, “are we going to have to wear badges?” She didn’t know why she bothered asking. She already knew the answer.

“Don’t worry,” Elise said without taking her eyes off her comlink. “You’re so interesting, you’ll be able to reel in high-ranking friends.”

“And until then,” Jeth added, “you’re stuck with us and will have to answer our questions.”

The conversation went on after that, but Sheridan only half listened. She stared out the window and thought about rankings.

Not that long ago, she had complained to her mother about having to drive their beat-up truck to school. A few of the popular girls called it the Garbage Truck, and Sheridan had been afraid it was only one short step until somebody tagged her with the nickname Trashy.

So okay—maybe her society
had
ranked people, but at least they didn’t have to wear their status on their shirts like name tags that read, “Hello, My Name Is Loser.”

Echo followed Sheridan’s gaze out the window to the streets and pavement below. “Our city is much cleaner than the ones you’re used to, isn’t it?”

Clean yes, but she missed lawns, bushes, and trees. The city was one continuous beige without any green to break it up.

She studied one of the buildings farther down the street. “Why do some buildings have no outside walls?”

“Offices, apartments, and restaurants have walls for privacy. Stores don’t. They only use rails for the upper floors to prevent anyone from falling.”

Stores without walls? How did they keep people from stealing things? Sheridan decided against asking this question. If she asked about stealing, Echo might think she had a personal interest in the subject. She’d already branded herself as a low-ranking flesh eater. She didn’t want to add
thief
to the list.