Sunder

Sunder

by

Kristin McTiernan

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 Kristin McTiernan
. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

Jaramillo-Diaz Travel and Compliance

7000 DeGama Blvd.

Miami, FL 34T16

(709)450-800

Rules for Guest Travelers

1. No traveler shall enter a year during which he or she is alive.
   
2. There shall be two Agency escorts per traveler.
   
3. No traveler shall willfully interact with the population of the destination time period beyond necessary displays of courtesy.
   
4. Travelers shall carry with them only the time-appropriate clothing issued by agency officials. No recording devices. No modern technology of any kind, save the emergency beacon. Note-taking materials shall be acquired at the destination time period.
   
5. Travelers will only use the language of the destination time and location. Speaking of modern languages will result in censure.  Writing in modern languages will result in permanent barring from all time traveling and punishment to be determined by a disciplinary tribunal.
   
6. Any traveler who disobeys his or her escorting Agent will be subject to severe penalties.
   

At all costs, the timeline must be preserved.

Prologue

The woman stood before the council; her eyes were steady as she looked at the men she would have to convince.  They were seated at a semi-circular table that seemed to have been built for no other reason than to intimidate all who stood before it.  In this, it was very effective. There were nine of them, and they stared right back at her.  At that moment, she had an odd wish that her parents were with her, her father in particular.  Maybe it was the room.  It was very grand, like you might see in the courtroom-drama films of her parents’ childhood, full of high ceilings and lavish oak trimming. In reality, government rooms never looked so magnificent, but this one did.  It even had a lofty Latin phrase, written in gold lettering above the seated men.  In the old films, the Latin phrase was always something about Justice, the illusive blind woman who held the scales so precariously.  But the Latin in this room was not about Justice:
ut sementem feceris ita metes.
As you sow, so will you reap. She wondered what this room was typically used for.

She had not been offered a chair.  The Agency uniform she was loaned fit too tight, so she would probably not be able to sit anyway.  The council was clearly not concerned with her comfort.  After all, it was because of her they had been summoned from their respective residences at this ungodly hour.  She did not heed the irritation in their eyes, for she had been standing so long her very heartbeat caused her body to ache. All the doors had been locked, guards posted outside. She did not wait for their permission to speak.

“I know you must be suspicious of me.” Her voice was steady, and she sounded older than her face had probably led her inquisitors to believe she was.  “After all, I am not technically supposed to exist. According to your records, I was never born.  But I am here nonetheless, so where does that leave us? I have information you want, and in return you will listen to what I have to say.  I know what happened to Isabella Jaramillo.”

The nine men did not speak, but the sound of all of them simultaneously leaning forward in their chairs echoed throughout the cavernous room.

“I, like all of you, am a traveler. And on my travels, I met a woman who, in my world, had never existed.  She did not belong in the twenty-first century of my birth. Nor did she belong in the century in which I met her.”

“So she is alive?” The man who spoke was visibly older than the others, withered and plainly dying. He wore the collar of a priest, and she vaguely wondered what purpose he served.

“Not anymore, Friend. Isabella breathed her last breath centuries ago. But I am not here to tell you about her – not really. I am here to tell you what she told me.” The men sat back in their chairs, their clothing making a collective sigh. 

Describing her experiences was difficult for her. The urge to jump immediately to the important parts overwhelmed her. But for clarity's sake, she knew she must put the events chronologically as she had experienced them. The men continued to observe her; their stares chafed like wool.

“I will admit I was confused by Isabella. She seemed to have a history completely foreign to my own. She was from 2114, a full forty years after my origination date.  That was an excellent reason for me not to know her.  But other things she said,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “troubled me.  So I asked her about her country, its history.  Her version of events could not have come from the correct timeline.  Hearing Adolf Hitler was a famous painter and that there was no second Great War was enough to convince me action must be taken. Nothing was as I knew it. Nothing was as it should be.”

She took a breath. The hostility in the room would get worse before it got better, but right now the men just looked confused—all but one.

“Did Isabella tell you how she came to be Lost?” the middle-aged man with the salt and pepper hair and the bandaged forehead asked—the man who had, until this moment, carefully avoided looking into her eyes.  Rather he had sat quietly, holding a worn slip of paper in his left hand. She read his name plaque in front of him, but she didn't need to.  She already knew who he was; he was the one she had to fear most.  For he knew her as well.

“Yes, Alfredo.  Your daughter told me everything I needed to know.”

His grip on the paper in his hand tightened, and he looked at her intensely. He did not look pleased.

1

Isabella Jaramillo hated her husband. She hated everything about him. The undeniable fact of it sat in her gut as she leaned against the doorframe of her closet. She had come in here simply to pick out a pair of shoes for next week’s trip to 1921, only to find one of Etienne’s soiled uniforms draped over the tallest of her shoe racks. He had to have thrown it, given how high up it was. He had come in here, into
her
closet, and tossed in his sweaty gray uniform among her perfectly arranged clothing and her meticulously organized shoes. That act of aggression had been galling enough. But when she had grabbed the uniform to toss it into the laundry bin, she saw a framed picture of her wedding day had been placed underneath it. Heat rose up on the back of her neck when she read the sticky note affixed on the side: “October 21, 2108.  Six years is too long a time to just give up.”

It was this type of passive-aggressive nonsense that had ruined their marriage in the first place. No one could say she had not been devoted,
invested,
in making this marriage work. Snatching up the picture, she stared at the younger version of herself, her black hair and brown skin looking so beautiful next to her white dress.  Such a contrast to Etienne's blond/blue combination.  She had been happy that day. But times change.  People change.

“I suppose bad things happen when you make life-altering decisions while in university,” she muttered to herself. Her father had warned her thus, saying she was too young to appreciate what type of man she needed.
You are a Jaramillo, Mija. Our lives are not like other peoples’.

Father had been right of course, but Isabella had been so enveloped in the romance of it all when she and Etienne had been dating. The rose-colored glasses were firmly in place and she had believed theirs was a love designed by the Lord himself.  He had been her respite from the awkwardness of university, the whispers and the points from the other students, not to mention the unsavory rumors. So many liars hoping to achieve the reputation as the one who had deflowered Alfredo Jaramillo’s daughter. So many false friends looking to secure their own careers and reputations by simply earning Isabella’s favor. Etienne had been different—brave enough to speak to her, but seeming to want nothing more than her friendship. What an idiot she had been.

She snorted with disgust and flung his filthy uniform out of her closet, hearing its soft impact on the mosaic tile floor of her bathroom.  If nothing else, she should have known how false he was simply by his name.  How pretentious.  How irritating.  The English-speaking population so often tried to nose its way into decent society.  As if giving your son a French name made him something other than Anglo-trash.  At least his parents had not been so arrogant as to try and pass him off with a Spanish name.  Etienne came from a middle class family, so she grudgingly admitted he could pass for French.  But in the American Republic, particularly in Florida, one was either Spanish or wished he was. 

She had been fooled into thinking Etienne was different than the rest of his uncultured people who crammed themselves into upper East coast cities and never bothered to learn Spanish.  Granted, English was one of the three official languages of the Republic, but no one actually used it outside of Massachusetts and New York.  Even Maine had turned to French decades ago.

Etienne was just like the rest of them—arrogant, uncultured, spiteful.  If only she had been obedient and not married him.  She even requested dispensation from the Pope to marry a Protestant.  What was she thinking? 

His good qualities had originally blinded her to his flaws, as was natural, she supposed. Time wore on, however, and Etienne’s mannerisms began to wear thin. His unwillingness to argue directly and refusal to speak about the downfall of his parents, she originally mistook for stolid self-control.  But Isabella soon saw it was nothing but cowardly passivity and emotional constipation.  When she did something to displease him, he would quietly punish her while feigning everything was “just fine.”  If pushed to explain himself, he would explode into hysterical screaming fits followed quickly by a humble apology.  To make things worse, he constantly criticized her and her friends, as if they were for him to judge.  His clinging social awkwardness had also grated on her nerves until she was finally able to see him for what he was—weak and disgusting.

Unfortunately, The Vatican did not recognize disgust as a suitable reason for annulment, and divorce had been illegal since the Republic's founding in 1812.  The Senate considered removing Catholicism as its official religion once.  But as those aging founding fathers looked at England, Holland, and the absolute bedlam and anarchy that had befallen the secular (Godless) countries, they decided to stay loyal to the Holy Father.  Only on rare occasions did Isabella lament that choice.  This was one of them.

She had had enough. Crumpling Etienne’s sticky note in her hand, Isabella replaced the smiling wedding photo on the shoe shelf and left her closet, winding her way through the bathroom, and emerging into her bedroom. The communication console was in idle mode, yet another of her wedding pictures smiling mockingly from the screen.  She tapped on it and brought up her list of contacts from the menu.  She had made her decision.  For it to work, she would need her father's help.  He would give it, and with great enthusiasm, with a mild undercurrent of smug satisfaction of course. But it would be worth it. Her life would finally be perfect.

2

“
Per Dominum Nostrum Jesum Christum Filium Tuum, Qui tecum vivit et regnat in unitate Spiritus Sancti Deus, Per omnia saecula saeculorum.”

“Amen.” The rest of the congregation responded to the Requiem as they should have, their voices dully ringing through the yawning reaches of Cathedral de Santo Domingo. Etienne, however, had drifted off.  His attempts to pay attention, or at least look like he was, were a resounding failure.  He understood very little Latin and, though loathe to admit it to himself, hearing it made him feel stupid.  With a subtle shake of his head, hoping to clear away his discomfort, he redoubled his efforts. 

Macias had been a good man, a decent man; Etienne owed it to him to listen as the priest wished his soul to Heaven.  The rest of the black-clad mourners were paying rapt attention.  How would it look if
The Protestant
was caught daydreaming while his colleague entered the Gates of Eternity? No, he must pay attention, even though this was his second funeral in as many days.

It was always a tragedy when Agents lost their lives to the cause.  In this case, Macias, Santiago, and the professor they were escorting had not died on their assignment per se, but had rather become Lost—the most feared of fates for anyone who traveled with Jaramillo-Diaz Travel and Compliance.  Occasionally, the Agency received reports of a confirmed fatality.  An Agent or traveler may be standing just outside the agreed-upon coordinates, and only a certain part of them would be taken back to base—a terribly messy and traumatic event for all involved.  Sometimes there would be a disruption, a short in the equipment, a temporal wake from another traveler, even a solar storm within twenty years of the destination time.  So much could go wrong when bringing someone home. 

Transmittal technicians, like himself, had the easy part.  They only had to move people—take the group of people in question, and inject their mass into the target time frame.  The technology could drop them anywhere in the world within 1500 years of the originating year; any farther back, and the chances of becoming Lost quadrupled. Following these guidelines, faulty equipment was the only possible way to lose a traveler during transmittal. Inspection standards were rigorous, so it had only happened a few times in the entire history of time travel.

  But the retrieval technicians had to move space.  It had taken scientists only six months to master the art of sending someone back through time.  It took them close to ten years to learn to bring them home again.  In order to retrieve a traveler, a temporal bubble at very specific coordinates in both time and space had to be created.  Everything encased in that bubble would be jerked through time back to where it belonged.  Preferably, a technician at The Agency would do this.  But in case of extenuating circumstances, each traveler was given an emergency beacon to guide him home. Mistakes happened more frequently in emergency retrievals, but it was better than being stranded.  The great majority of retrievals were successful, regardless of the method; but there was always a risk.  Sometimes you got a body back, but mostly, people just got Lost.  The Agency could never be sure if those souls lived out their lives happily in some foreign time, or if they had disintegrated with the force of the retrieval.  In either case, the Vatican mandated they all be given a Requiem.  Given that no Lost person had ever resurfaced, it seemed a reasonable precaution for the preservation of their eternal souls.

Etienne looked over at his wife, Isabella, sitting across the aisle next to Esperanza Macias.  Those two had only been friends for a year or so, as Isabella went through “best friends” very quickly.  Esperanza was more pleasant than some of her predecessors, and he felt sorry she had lost her husband. 

He gazed at his beautiful wife.  Her veil hid the glory of her hair, but not the beauty of her refined face, her long graceful neck, or that smooth delicious body he got to touch so rarely.  She sat with her ankles crossed, caressing Esperanza's hand and looking down sadly. 

She seemed to feel him looking at her, and twisted her neck to look back at him.  They studied each other for a moment; he ached with longing, even as he registered her expression of barely concealed contempt, as if his very presence was spoiling her grieving experience.  He had been getting that look more frequently of late.  She used to keep it reserved for when they were alone together, but now it had spilled over into the public arena.

Etienne watched as his wife's gaze drifted past him, her face softening for a moment before she hastily turned back to Esperanza's stoic grief.  He turned slightly, hoping he was wrong about who had so delighted her.  Nope, he was right—Guillermo Ramirez, looking so dignified in his Agent’s uniform.  Agents wore individually tailored crisp black uniforms.  Etienne and his fellow technicians were relegated to a faded grey coverall that, in this ocean of sable clothing, stuck out like an obscene hand gesture in a family photo. Ramirez continued to look at Isabella with a sad and respectful bearing, not at all like the prick he was. 

It was now time for the Sacrament. Everyone in the first row on both sides of the aisle stood and made their way to the front.  Everyone except Etienne. This was a ritual to which he had become accustomed. Every Sunday, the pews around him would empty as the parishioners lined up to receive the Eucharist.  But he remained in his place, silent and alone for those horrible ten minutes it took his pew to return from the communion rail. He assumed his normal stance, which was to kneel and close his eyes, pretending to pray until every single person had returned to the pew. He opened his eyes just in time to see Ramirez walking up to the rail, catching Isabella’s eye as he passed.

She was sleeping with him.  Everyone knew it.  So typical of these people; they break their own laws constantly and look the other way, and yet if some Anglo gets caught using birth control, she goes to jail for a year.  He fantasized briefly about what Isabella's punishment would be if the authorities were to receive an anonymous tip regarding her little procedure a few years back. Probably a fine, at best.  She was, of course, a Jaramillo.  They are above punishment.  Unbelievable, these people.

“
In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
.”  The Mass was ended.  As there was no coffin, only the priest and the altar boys descended from the altar, down the aisle of the sanctuary.  The celebrant for Macias was Padre Lopez-Castaneda.  He was the sanctimonious asshole who had married Etienne to Isabella.  The good father had spent the eight months of pre-marital counseling threatening him with Hell if he didn't convert to the
One True Church.
  His refusal had garnered him even more contempt from the Spanish, even though he had signed a legal affidavit guaranteeing any children would be brought up Catholic. But that particular issue would never be broached; Isabella had made sure of that. 

As the priest exited into the sacristy, it was now time for the procession of mourners to express condolences to Esperanza and the elder Mrs. Macias, who had flown in from Agua Dulce yesterday morning.

Even though he was barely tolerated, Etienne was still a Jaramillo.  As Isabella was already standing behind Esperanza, it was his duty to lead the procession.  He strode slowly up to the poor woman and gently grasped her hands.

“Please accept the deepest condolences of the Jaramillo family.” He kissed her on both cheeks and moved to stand next to Isabella.  He had given his statement in French.   His Spanish was thickly accented, and he supposed life on Earth would simply grind to a halt if he had the gall to say it in English.  He had fulfilled his role.  Now, there was nothing left to do but stand aside and let the parade of dark-haired Spaniards and the handful of token French ignore him.  He saw Ramirez making his way through the line. 

It was expected for the mourners to kiss Doña and Señora Macias, but a few of them kissed Isabella as well.  When the large woman directly in front of Ramirez stepped in front of Esperanza, Etienne discreetly reached over and took his wife's hand.  Her eyebrow twitched, but she did not pull away.  His fingers were wrapped around the enormous wedding ring she had bought for herself.  The one he bought wasn’t big enough for her, but she told everyone he had bought it. This was one of the few occasions to which she had worn the ring in almost a year. Ramirez gave his consolation without looking at Isabella or Etienne.  But they were both staring at him. 

It seemed as if the line was walking through waist-deep water. They all wanted to make a good show of being sad for Macias, even the ones who had never met him. The Macias family was tied to the Jaramillos, and that made them important. The murmuring of solace and the shuffle of footsteps continued until the last mourner headed out of the archway, and they were finally all gone. 

Esperanza and her mother-in-law had a moment to breathe before being driven to Don Jaramillo’s house, where the wake was being hosted. Morbid though it may be, the wake had been anticipated as the social event of the season.

“Etienne, have you met Doña Macias?” Isabella gracefully swept her hand in the direction of the stooped and grieving mother.  She tended to be overly grand in her gestures when she was pretending not to be embarrassed by him.  He would play along, of course.

“No, I haven't had the pleasure.” He walked over to Doña Macias slowly, as if she might be frightened away by sudden movements.  She was still standing for the processional, so he guided her to one of the pews, maintaining a light grip on her elbow as she gingerly sat down against the back of the pew.

“Your son spoke very highly of you and your late husband,” he said quietly.

Even in her frail condition, she managed to smile up at the blond stranger. “Do you work for the Agency, Mr. Danforth?”

“Yes, Madame. I program the equipment for destinations.”

The matriarch crumbled a bit. “Were you there when they lost my son?”

“Oh no, Doña Macias,” Isabella interjected. “Etienne is a transmittal technician.  Retrieval technicians require much more training.  It's such difficult work.” 

Etienne smiled and nodded and silently thanked his wife for reminding as many people as possible of his rejected application to Coronado's graduate program.  The stony surroundings of the Cathedral fell silent for a moment.

He watched Esperanza looking down at her glove, studiously avoiding eye contact. She must know, maybe better than anyone, what kind of state his marriage was in, though she typically did not involve herself in the bitterness.  She was never cruel or snide with Etienne (one of the few who was not), but she was Isabella's friend, not his.  He did not expect it when Esperanza leaned over to him and grasped his hands, looking at him with teary eyes.

“Marriage is such a blessing.  I am so happy you two still have each other.” She looked at her best friend, seemingly hoping Isabella would listen to her. “Never take your friend and companion for granted.  You never know what may happen in the future.” Sobs choked off her voice and she let go of Etienne's hands to cover her face. 

Isabella held Esperanza and stroked the bits of hair falling out of her veil.  As she looked at him over Esperanza's shoulder, Etienne saw it very clearly—Isabella envied her friend.

***

It was not a long drive to her father’s house, but Etienne’s sullen disposition made Isabella wish she had ridden with Esperanza instead.  Her husband was driving slower than usual and other drivers sped past them, some of them angrily revving their engines in the process. The glistening ocean on one side of the freeway and the Moorish-style condominiums on the other provided one of the more beautiful stretches of scenery in Northern Miami, and the slow pace would have been quite appropriate for a happy couple out for a day of sightseeing. With the two of them staring straight ahead in stony silence, Etienne’s knuckles gone white on the steering wheel, no one could ever confuse them for a happy couple.

Luckily, the windows were darkly tinted, repelling any inquisitive stares from other motorists or, God forbid, members of the press. It would not do for yet another picture of Isabella and her husband to make the gossip pages with some invasive caption:
Trouble in Paradise? Odd Couple or Odd Man Out?
No matter how perfectly Isabella executed her impression of a loving dutiful wife, somehow the paparazzi were always on hand to snap the perfect picture of the truth shining through her eyes. The worst of the candid photos had been published only three days ago. Well, the picture itself was nothing too terrible; Isabella and Etienne had been waiting for the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the Agency’s new childcare center. Bored and with feet aching from too-high stilettos, Isabella’s face had been one of pinched unpleasantness, and the angle of the camera had made it look as if she were looking directly at Etienne. What made the photo awful was that some enterprising would-be comic had drawn a thought bubble over Isabella’s head that read, “
I hate your face.”

It had not mattered to Etienne when Isabella called the magazine’s editor, receiving assurances that neither the paparazzo nor the “cartoonist” would be working for the magazine ever again. Neither was he swayed by her explanation of her aching feet and displeasure with the heat of the day. He had remained silent for days, the pressure of his rage filling up the house like helium. That was his way—silent, angry oppression. So it was a surprise to Isabella when he ruptured the silence of the car to speak.

Without turning his head, he blurted out, “I want you to stop seeing him.”