The Eighth Guardian

CHAPTER 16

The first day of combat training at Peel, I got paired up with a girl named Jordan Magnus. It was the first Krav Maga class either of us had taken, but it turned out that Jordan was already something of a jujitsu maven. I learned this the hard way when I took a roundhouse kick square to the gut. It knocked the wind out of me and left me writhing on the ground, gasping and choking and sure I was going to die.

That’s how I feel at this moment.

“Dr. Ariel Stender,” Alpha says. I stare at the photo. I don’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I know who he is. Of course I know who he is. Alpha starts talking about his background, and I nod and nod and nod. I don’t know what else to do.

Alpha keeps saying the name. Dr. Stender. Dr. Stender. Dr. Stender. Over and over and over again. Stender. Ariel Stender. Abe Stender. And I’d be lying if I said that there wasn’t a notebook lying around somewhere from freshman year with a bunch of hearts and the name Mrs. Amanda Obermann-Stender scribbled in it.

I stare at the picture in the folder. Ariel looks so much like Abe it’s scary—it was always a big joke at the Stender dinner table. They have the same protruding brow, the same intense, heavy eyes.

According to Abe, it’s bad luck in the Jewish religion to name a baby after a living relative, so many times parents choose a name starting with the same letter as a deceased relative. Abe technically was named after a distant second cousin named Adam, but everyone kind of understands that—wink, wink, nudge, nudge—he’s named in honor of Ariel.

Alpha is still talking about Ariel’s background. Why? I already know it. He has to know that I know it. Ariel received a bachelor’s degree in engineering physics from Harvard, then a PhD in aeronautics from MIT. I’m sure it goes without saying, but the man’s wicked smart. He was in the running for a Nobel one year, although he was edged out by some guy who studied liquid crystals and polymers. He lectures all over the world and has even been on a first-name basis with the last three presidents.

Although, honestly, you’d never know that Ariel has all these amazing credentials. There aren’t any diplomas hanging in his study, no awards littering the hallways. You won’t find any of the dozens of books he’s authored shoved into his bookcases. He lives in the same modest house in Cambridge that he grew up in as a child, and he drives a Toyota that’s older than I am.

“Ariel invented time travel?” I ask.

Alpha stops midsentence. He was saying something, but I’m not sure what. I haven’t taken my eyes off the picture.

His shoulders drop, and he lets out a quick breath. “No. He invented the Annum watches.”

“Ariel,” I repeat. “Ariel Stender. He’s involved with Annum Guard?”

“He invented the Annum watches,” Alpha repeats. “I warned you that this was going to be difficult for you, but you have to focus now. It’s our only chance.”

I can’t focus. I feel as if I’ve been handcuffed and blindfolded and pitched into the deep end of a swimming pool.

“You know about Abe and me?” I ask. It’s a stupid question. Of course he does. He doesn’t even respond to it. I drop my head to look at the picture again.

Alpha gently guides my head back up with his hand. His eyes are soft. “Can you do this? I need you to look me in the eyes right this second and tell me you can do this. You’re only going to have one shot. I’ve been given orders to detain you in Annum Hall until this evening, when the proper authorities will arrive to take you and dispose of you.”

I recoil. Dispose of me. Like I’m trash.

Last night I was the happiest I’ve been in a really long time. Maybe the happiest I’ve ever been. What a difference a few hours can make.

“Iris,” Alpha says.

“I can do this,” I tell him, looking him right in the eyes.

It’s a lie. Maybe. I don’t know. My head is a foggy mess. I can’t think right now. Abe’s grandfather invented the Annum watches. I knew he was smart, but how else is he involved? Does he know about Annum Guard? He has to. Does Abe know about Annum Guard? My heart skips a beat. If Abe knows about it, then there’s a chance he’ll come looking for me when he realizes I haven’t gone CIA.

Unless he’s moved on, found another girlfriend, and doesn’t care about me anymore.

I don’t have time to think. Alpha bends down and inserts a key into a lock on his desk drawer. He pulls out a silver case, and I immediately know what it is.

“I’m not going to need a gun,” I tell him.

Alpha hands it over anyway. “Take it for protection.”

I hesitate. What does he think I’m going to do, shoot Ariel if he won’t change his design? And then I look in Alpha’s eyes, and I understand. That’s exactly what he wants me to do.

I drop the gun on the desk.

“Never mind,” I say.

But then an image of myself as an old lady pacing an eight-by-ten cell fills my head. There are track marks crisscrossing the floor. I weigh about eighty pounds. I’m hunched over with long, wiry hair and crazy eyes. I scream at the guards. I tell everyone who will hear me about Annum Guard. But no one believes me. After all, I’ve been telling the same story for the last seventy years.

I pick the gun back up.

I head upstairs to change into something period appropriate. I barely even notice what I choose but somehow wind up in black pants with a light-pink sweater. So not my color. And then I’m downstairs, with a gun holster strapped to my ankle, and Alpha is walking me toward the gravity chamber.

“One shot,” he says. “This is all up to you.”

I nod my head.

“Set your watch to go back to March 30, 1962. Stender has invented the watches but hasn’t yet added the genetic controls. He’s on the faculty at MIT. That’s where you’ll find him. You can do this.”

I don’t say anything. I just keep nodding my head like a deranged seal. And then Alpha opens the door and pushes me through it.

I fall into familiar blackness but barely feel the sensations today. The ache and confusion in my heart have blocked out everything. I land in the broom closet and hesitate. Will this be the last time I’m here? The door opens into the street. The last time I see the sun?

I shake the thought from my head and jog toward the Red Line. Charles Street is only a few blocks away, and MIT is right across the river. The gun feels heavy as I run. It’s weighing me down. I should stop and get rid of it. I’m not going to need it. But I don’t.

The Charles Street station is there, but there’s no sign directing me to the Red Line. Instead it’s telling me I’ve found a Boston Elevated stop. Whatever. There’s no time to think about it. There’s a rumbling and a screeching above that can only mean the train is approaching. Massachusetts General Hospital looms in front of me as I race up the steps. Sure enough, a train is pulling in just as I get there, and I push myself in between the mass of morning commuters squeezing themselves through the doors. The train is jam-packed, mostly with men wearing business suits and hats, holding a handle with one hand and a briefcase with the other. A lot of them have the Globe tucked under their arms, including the man next to me, the one I’m currently pressed right up against as the final wave of passengers boards the train. I glance at his paper.

Friday, March 30, 1962

I strain a little harder to read the headline.

VOLPE GETS HUB POLICE BILL; POWERS DARES HIM TO VETO IT

I have no idea what that means. I don’t care either. The doors slide shut behind me. I grab a handle just as the train starts rocking and swaying its way across the salt-and-pepper bridge. I don’t know what the real name of this bridge is. I’ve just always called it that because the statues on top look like salt and pepper shakers.

Will this be the last time I see this bridge? The full enormity of the situation starts to sink in. If I fail—if I don’t convince Ariel to change the design—they’re going to take me away. Part of me screams that they can’t do that. It’s unconstitutional. It’s inhumane. But another part of me knows that the rules are different here. The Constitution doesn’t apply to people like me. I’m a part of the government but outside its laws and protections. They can do whatever they want with me. After all, I’ve already given them permission to do it.

The train ducks underground and stops at Kendall station a few minutes later. I push my way through the crowd and trudge up the steps. MIT is across the street, so I hang back as a big black submarine of a car rolls through the intersection, then join a throng of students shuffling to class.

I sidle up to a young man wearing dark pants, a white shirt, and a skinny black tie. “Excuse me.”

He turns to look at me, his big blue eyes hidden behind horn-rimmed glasses. He could be a modern-day hipster.

“Where’s the physics building?” I figure that’s where I’m going to find Ariel.

The guy’s brow creases, and he pushes his glasses up on to the bridge of his nose. “Which physics building?” he asks. “There are a number of them.”

Oh. Right. Of course there are.

“Are you looking for a specific professor?” he asks.

“Stender. Dr. Ariel Stender.”

The guy nods as if he’s heard of Ariel. “Oh, okay. I had Stender for eight oh four.” And I nod as if I understood that. “His office is in Building Twenty-six.”

Wow. That’s lucky. I thank him and jog across campus, although I have to ask two more people to point me in the right direction. This campus is confusing. Finally I find a five-story rectangle with louvered windows and an orange sign telling me I’ve found Building 26.

I step into a long hallway with white linoleum floors and overhead fluorescent lights. It would be nice if there was a directory, but at least the first person I ask—a girl in a gray tweed suit with a pillbox hat—knows Ariel’s office is on the fifth floor.

I thank her, then take a deep breath and follow behind a cluster of guys heading for the stairs. His office is right off the landing. PROF. A. STENDER is stenciled on the door in big black letters I can’t miss. The door is shut, so I knock. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I place my hand over it like it will escape if I don’t. I think I’m more nervous than I was for the Gardner mission. There’s so much riding on this, and I’m about to plunge back into my past. And what I always hoped would be my future.

I hear footsteps inside the office, and I hold my breath. The door swings open, and a young, petite female wearing a plain, long-sleeved olive-green dress opens it. She’s holding a sandwich in her hand and is standing in stocking-clad feet. She looks vaguely familiar, but that can’t be right.

“Yes?” She holds the sandwich out to the side. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Dr. Stender.”

“He’s not here.”

I look past her into the cramped office. Its shelved walls are about to burst with books piled haphazardly on top of one another. That’s so very like Ariel. Cluttered chaos. Yet he always knows exactly where everything is.

“Where can I find him?” I tap my foot against the floor. Nervous tic.

“That depends on what you need him for.” She shoots me a raised eyebrow. I’m not sure who this girl is, but she’s clearly no-nonsense. I kind of admire that. But I don’t have time to make friends. I have to find Ariel, convince him to change the design, and then get the hell out of here. Now.

“I’m here about—” And then I stop talking. What do I say? I’m a visitor from the future here to convince him to change something about his time machine? “His funding,” I decide on. “I’m here about his funding.”

The girl’s eyes get wide. “Oh shoot.” She drops the sandwich onto a plate set on the messy desk and wipes her hands on her dress. “Are you from the Kershul Group?” But then she stops and looks me up and down. “You look so young.”

“I’m older than I look.”

The girl offers a meek smile. “I’m so sorry if I sounded cross before. I’m trying to finish these calculations for Dr. Stender, and I’m a little frazzled right now.”

I hold up a hand. “It’s perfectly all right. My name is . . . Peggy Hart.” That name sounds as if it’s from the sixties, I think. “And yes, I’m from the . . .” Dammit all, what did she say the name of that group was?

“You’re from Kershul.” The girl slips her feet into black heels. “We got your telegram yesterday. You’re early. We weren’t expecting you until next week.”

“Oh, well, I was in the neighborhood,” I lie. I’m just going to go with it.

“From San Francisco?” the girl asks as she grabs her pocketbook and pulls the door shut behind her. She sounds confused, but she smiles at me as if she’s not. “Dr. Stender is in Building Twenty. I’ll take you there.”

“I had other business to attend to on the East Coast.” We start down the stairs. I really need to stop talking now. The best lies are the simplest. They taught us that at Peel. I’m making mine far too complicated. They’re going to see through it.

The girl stops in the lobby and looks at me. “Not at Harvard?” There’s an edge to her voice now.

I clear my throat. “Where’s Building Twenty?”

The girl laughs and pushes open the door, then holds it for me. “You’re funny. Building Twenty. You know where it is. It’s where the Rad Lab used to be. Kershul helped fund it.”

I nod my head even though I don’t understand a word she’s saying. “Of course.” Dammit. I’m blowing this. Keep it simple. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.” The girl stops and holds out her hand. “I’m Mona. Mona Hirsch. I’m Dr. Stender’s research assistant.” She reaches into her purse, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, sticks one in her mouth, and lights it. “This way.”

I can’t walk. My feet won’t move. Because she’s Mona. The Mona. Ariel’s future wife. Abe’s future grandmother. And she’s going to be a karate sensei someday.

Without thinking, I leap over to Mona and tear the cigarette from her lips. I throw it to the ground and stomp on it.

Mona looks at me with horrified eyes. “What’d you do that for?”

How am I supposed to answer her? I can’t very well tell Mona that she’s going to die of lung cancer in a few decades, caused solely by her pack-a-day habit. And I certainly can’t tell her that the love of her life, who I guess is currently her professor, is going to be completely heartbroken over her death.

“Cigarettes cause cancer,” I mutter.

Mona shrugs. “I’m nineteen. I don’t need to worry about that.”

“Yes, you do.” I’ve never met this woman, but I know the void her death will cause many years from now. “Besides, I don’t think Dr. Stender likes girls who smoke.” This part is true at least. Ariel used to rage whenever someone would light up in front of him. I don’t know whether he’s always been that way, but it’s worth a shot.

“He doesn’t?” Mona asks, and I hear it in her voice. She already has a thing for Ariel. I knew the two of them had met at MIT, but the way I’d always heard it, Mona was a grad student, not a nineteen-year-old undergrad. Maybe that’s why I’d never heard about it. Or maybe they don’t get together for another few years. “How do you know that?”

“It came up in conversation,” I say.

Mona raises an eyebrow at me, just enough for me to wish I hadn’t opened my big mouth, but then she points to a huge, ugly building that stretches forever. It’s white concrete with plain, square windows. “There’s Building Twenty.”

We enter a dingy, dark corridor, and Mona leads me to the B wing. The floors creak, and most of the windows have mold growing in the corners. I rub my hands over my arms. This place is creepy.

We stay on the ground floor and head down another dirty corridor until we’re at the last door. Mona holds it open, and as she does, a short, thin man looks up from behind a very odd-looking machine. Ariel. I stop in my tracks. It’s like looking at a slightly older version of my boyfriend.

“Dr. Stender,” Mona calls over the whir of a machine, “this is Miss Hart. She’s here from the Kershul Group.”

“Is she now?” Ariel switches off the machine he’s working on. It’s small, with two discs on either side connected by a thin copper wire. There’s a thin silver switch on the base of the machine. “I was expecting Jack Briggs from Kershul. He’s who I’ve been communicating with. But he’s not due to arrive until next week.”

Ariel is young. So young. I’m used to the man with silver hair and age spots dotting his hands, not this trim, fit, slightly older version of Abe that stands before me. My heart is hammering away inside my chest. I miss Abe. I’ve been trying my best to leave him behind and go about my business, but now he’s standing here before me and I want to run to him and throw myself into his arms.

It’s not Abe, I tell myself. Not Abe. Ariel. And I have to focus.

“He couldn’t make it. I came in his place. From San Francisco.” My voice is wavering.

“Hart, you said?” Ariel’s voice is skeptical. I’m being naive if I thought such a weak, poorly thought-out cover story was going to fly. “Ah yes, we’ve spoken before, have we not?”

I choke back my shock. What’s Ariel playing at? Either there really is a Miss Hart he’s actually spoken to somewhere at the Kershul Group—whatever that is—or he knows something’s up. It has to be the latter. After all, how many teenage representatives are hired by huge funding groups? I’m dead in the water.

“We have.” I extend my hand. “But I’m short on time today. Can you show me what you’re working on?”

“Oh, did Jack not give you the designs I sent?” Ariel starts rifling through a stack of papers on a nearby table.

“No,” I say.

“Where did I put those?” Ariel wonders out loud. Mona comes to his side and helps him look, then pulls out a plain brown expansion folder.

“Is this it?” she asks in a tone that says she already knows it is.

Ariel takes it from her. “Thank you, Mona,” he says without looking at her. Her face falls just the slightest bit, and I know they’re not a couple yet. He barely even sees her. “You can leave us.” Her expression goes still.

Ariel’s already flipping through the papers in the file as Mona walks out. He doesn’t say good-bye or even turn to watch her go. I hurt for her. I feel like I’m being shunned by Abe. And I know I’m not supposed to interfere with the past or alter things, especially for my own personal gain, but what does it matter? If I fail, no one is ever going to see me again.

“She’s very pretty,” I tell Ariel.

“Huh?” Ariel grabs several pieces of paper and pulls them out of the folder, then looks at the door. “Who, Mona? Yes, I suppose. Here”—he shoves the papers at me—“these are the final designs for this beauty.” He taps the machine he was tinkering with when I first got here, the machine with the two discs and the copper wiring.

I look down at the designs. There’s a picture of the machine, then arrows labeling all the parts on the first page. I flip to the second page and am hit with page after page of complicated mathematical calculations. I have no idea what any of it means, and I don’t see anything that talks about a genetic link. Does this machine even have anything to do with the Annum watches? I glance at the clock on the wall. An hour has passed since I arrived in 1962. That means almost three hours have elapsed in the present. This is not good.

I flip the papers closed. “Walk me through it.”

Ariel nods and heads over to the machine. He spins the discs on either side of it. “This is just the prototype, of course. The actual device is larger. Much larger.” He chuckles like he just made a joke, and I give a weak smile. “When it’s turned on, these discs start spinning faster than the speed of light.” He points to the copper wire in between the discs. “And this tunnels exotic matter, which creates a wormhole between the two points. I’ve figured out a way to load the wormhole into a small, everyday object that would allow time travel.”

Ariel switches off the machine and turns to me.

“We’re limiting it,” he tells me. “We’re loading the genetic makeup of seven men, hand-picked because of their strength, acumen, physical prowess, and intellectual capacity. The time travel devices will only work for those seven men.”

“Why?” I ask.

“This is an experiment. The fewer people who can travel through time, the better.” He drops his voice. “It’s never a good thing to go messing with time unnecessarily. Time is a powerful and dangerous tool.”

A chill races up my back.

“I have folks at the Department of Defense interested in this project,” Ariel continues. “They’re the ones who’ve asked us to limit it.”

“Have they given you money?”

“No,” Ariel says. “Not yet. They promise they will if the prototype is to their liking, but until that day, I need the help of the Kershul Group.”

Yeah, Kershul Group, whatever. “And what if someday you want to expand it past those seven individuals? How do you do that?”

“Well, their children would be able to time travel, obviously—”

“I’m talking broader than that,” I interrupt.

Ariel takes the papers from me and flips open to the fifth page. He points to a calculation. “That’s this. A later addition to the machine down the line. It’s only in the design phase. The machine was specifically designed to reflect only the genetic makeup of the chosen seven. Adding another person would require complicated and expensive changes to the design. We’re not there yet. We don’t have the funding.”

I ignore the push about funding because, oh my God, this is my solution. I don’t have to ask Ariel to scrap the genetic thing and let anyone time travel. I just have to make sure he doesn’t ever change the machine to add other travelers. This is even better. This way I’ll never be recruited into Annum Guard in the first place. I’ll leave 1962 and go back to Peel. Go back to Abe.

Or will I be stuck in 1962 forever? If I’m suddenly incapable of projecting, how am I going to get back?

I look at Ariel. I know this man. I love this man. He doesn’t know me yet, but he’s going to come to love me just like a granddaughter. Maybe I should trust him with my secret. Tell him that I’ve come from the future and beg him to help me.

Or do I trust Alpha? He says he really wants to help me, and part of me wants to believe him. Ariel or Alpha? Ariel or Alpha? Who’s to say I can really trust this Ariel from the past? I don’t know him. People change so much over the years. Maybe young Ariel is greedy and ambitious and out to prove his name no matter what. That’s so different from the generous, caring, genuine Ariel I know; but it’s definitely possible.

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life locked in an eight-by-ten cell with a small, slatted window. Or maybe no window at all.

I decide to trust Alpha. To complete the mission he gave me.

“I’ll give you the funding on one condition,” I say.

Ariel’s eyebrows pop up. “What’s that?”

“Change the design. Get rid of the genetic link. Make it so that anyone with one of your watches can time travel.”

Ariel blinks. Then he scowls. “I never said anything about a watch.”

My heart skips a beat. “I—uh—” I flip through the papers Ariel gave me while my heart beats wildly. “Um—” I flip past a page of calculations, another page of calculations. Oh, please please please let there be a visual in here somewhere. “I mean—” And then I gasp. “Here!”

I shove the page in Ariel’s face. It’s a drawing of the machine, and in the bottom left corner there’s a rendering of a watch. I’m not religious, but thank-you to anyone or anything that might be looking out for me right now.

“Ah,” Ariel says. “Of course. You’ve seen this before.” But there’s something funny in his tone. I’m blowing this big-time.

“So you’ll get rid of the genetic link then?”

“What?” Ariel shakes his head. “No.”

I blow out a breath from my lips. “No?”

“No,” he repeats. “The DOD wants the genetic limitations. It’s always been my intention to partner with them on this, to let them use the power of Chronometric Augmentation—that’s what I’ve been calling it—to improve our lives. I’m unwilling to risk this machine falling into the wrong hands.”

“Then I’m not funding you.” My voice cracks and wavers. I can’t lose it. Although, what’s the point? The real Kershul Group representative is going to show up next week and probably provide the funding anyway.

Ariel sticks out his hand. “Sorry to hear it. It would have been a good fit for your interests. I’ll start looking elsewhere.”

I hesitate before taking Ariel’s hand in my own. My heart puddles onto the floor. Is this the last time I’m going to have physical contact with another human being? I blink back tears. I have to get out of here. I have to go now.

I turn on my heel and race toward the door, then down the stairs and onto campus, and I don’t stop until I’ve reached Massachusetts Avenue. I drop onto a bench. This can’t be happening. I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve failed.

Good-bye, Abe. I hope you know how much I love you. Be happy. Good-bye, Mom. I’m so sorry your life turned out the way it did and that I wasn’t there for you. I hope you find the help you need someday. I’m never going to see either of you again. I’m done.

Except that I’m not. The thought flies into my brain and yanks my breath away.

Ariel hasn’t finished the prototype. The machine doesn’t have the genetic link yet. And I have a gun strapped to my ankle. I could take care of this now and go back a free woman.

But I can’t do that. I won’t do that.

Or will I?

I don’t leave the bench. An hour ticks by, which means I’ve lost three more hours in the present. Maybe I’ll just stay here forever. Except that they’ll track me. They’ll win.

My watch clicks to noon, and campus bustles with lunchtime activity. Students and professors dart this way and that, but I see Ariel straight ahead. He waits for traffic to die down, then jogs across Mass Ave.

I spring up off the bench and follow him. His house is only a few blocks from campus. I know it well. I hang back half a block and follow him to the wooden-shingled Cape-style home stuck plumb in the middle of the block. There’s a long, flat, baby-blue Chrysler out front; but apart from that, the house looks exactly the same. Same white eyelet curtains in the windows. Same wrought iron bench on the stoop. I can’t see that well from where I am, but I bet you anything there’s a twisted metal S nailed above the doorbell and a mezuzah on the frame. I stop walking and watch Ariel enter the house.

The gun on my ankle feels so heavy.

I park myself on the stoop across the street and sit, staring at the house. The light in the living room is off. I wonder if Ariel is in the kitchen, which is next to the living room. Maybe he’s pulling leftovers out of the fridge and sitting at the kitchen table eating his lunch. The house doesn’t have a formal dining room, just a little space right off the kitchen. It’s tiny, but somehow we always managed to squeeze eight or even ten people around the table at holidays. I was there a couple months ago when Abe invited me to celebrate Rosh Hashanah with his family.

Ariel wanders into the living room and opens the window. I don’t try to duck, don’t try to hide. My hand travels down to my ankle, and I unhook the gun from its holster. I raise it, just to see if he’s in my line of fire. He is.

I wonder if past-Ariel knows how lucky he’s about to become. He’s going to get married and have a son, then his son is going to get married and have a boy of his own, a boy who’s going to have his grandfather’s physics genius and his father’s athleticism. I wonder if past-Ariel has any idea he’s going to fall in love with his research assistant and marry her. I wonder if past-Ariel can possibly know the pain and sadness her death is going to cause him. I wonder if he’ll know that his grandson’s girlfriend will stare longingly at the picture of Mona hanging at the top of the stairs and hope and pray that her boyfriend loves her even a tenth as much as Ariel loved Mona.

I want to run across the street. I want to bang on the door and beg Ariel to let me in. I want to wander the house I’ve become so familiar with, calling out for Abe. I want to find him sitting on the old yellow plaid couch in the basement, playing video games on an ancient, thirteen-inch TV because Ariel refuses to have a set in the living room. I want to cuddle next to Abe and sink my head into that warm crook in his neck. I want Abe to set down the video game controller and kiss me. Kiss me everywhere. Not to stop kissing me until we hear the creak of the old, rotted stairs and look up to see Ariel holding a laundry basket and hiding a smile.

I drop the gun on the step. Even if I can’t ever be with Abe again, even if I can’t ever see Abe again, I’ll never do this. Abe deserves a chance to live. A chance to be happy. A chance to have a family. I can’t take that away. I won’t.

I pick up the gun and toss it into a trash can on the sidewalk.

I’ve failed. My life is done.

So be it.