Chasing Stars (10 page)

He slammed the boot of his car shut and turned.

‘It’s me,’ I said.

He blinked. ‘Eden?’

I nodded and walked towards him.

‘What the hell?’ he said.

‘Ryan came back for me. The cleaner killed me so Ryan came back.’

Ben just stared, his mouth open.

‘But the Guardians found out and sent a cleaner after him.’

‘I know. It’s been all over the news: Admiral Westland’s son has gone rogue and stolen a time-ship. The Institute refused to comment. They prefer to keep their affairs to themselves.’ He shook his head. ‘But here you are.’

‘Ryan’s locked up inside. There’s going to be a trial.’

Ben glanced at his watch. ‘I want to talk, Eden. But I’m running late for my flight. Can I give you a ride somewhere?’

‘I’m going to be staying at the Lakeview Hotel. Can you drive me there?’

Ben nodded. ‘Jump in.’

‘This looks disappointingly normal,’ I said, running my eyes over his car. ‘I was hoping for hover cars or a jet pack.’

Ben gave me a look.

‘I’m kidding,’ I said, although I had expected the future to look more different than it had so far.

‘Don’t be fooled,’ he said. ‘It’s the little differences that throw you the most. They’re more unexpected. The big differences are easier to see.’

‘Where are we, anyway?’

‘Lakeborough, New Hampshire. Part of the Federation of North America. Lakeborough didn’t exist back in your time; it was just a collection of small resort towns. Now it’s home to the President’s summer residence and the Space and Time Institute. It’s a small city. You’ll be able to see downtown in a moment.’

He started the car using a retinal scanner built into the dashboard and the engine gently hummed to life. We rolled through the gate and on to a wide, tree-lined avenue. I turned in my seat and looked behind me. The Space and Time Institute sat on the crest of the hill, all white granite and glass, like a diamond solitaire.

The peaceful avenue that led from the Institute merged on to a busier road. We drove round a corner and the city came into view, spread below us all down the side of the hill and across the flat land to a large lake.

‘What month is it?’

‘It’s the end of July 2123.’

I did a quick calculation. It was one month, and one hundred and eleven years in the future.

‘So tell me what happened,’ said Ben.

I gave him the short version, about the cleaner coming back for Ryan and capturing us. I didn’t mention the part about me returning to my house and leading the cleaner to Ryan.

‘How long had Ryan been back in 2012 before the cleaner arrived?’ asked Ben.

‘Three days.’

‘That’s crazy! To portal in and out so close to when we portalled out.’

‘I know it’s dangerous. Our portal started collapsing on the way back here. We had to change course. I think we were supposed to have arrived in March.’

Ben shook his head.

‘What do you think will happen to Ryan?’ I asked.

‘Unregulated time travel is one of the most serious crimes against time. He’s going to need a good lawyer.’

‘Admiral Westland said something about an old protocol that might help.’

‘I don’t know much about the law, but I do know that there isn’t much public support for time travel in general. Ryan’s going to have a fight on his hands.’

The car slowed down and pulled up outside a white concrete building with metallic reflective windows.

‘This is the Lakeview Hotel,’ said Ben. ‘The Institute uses it for agents all the time. It’s discreet. Food’s quite nice.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, pulling the flexi-card from my pocket. ‘How does this work?’

‘It’s like a credit card, but it’s pre-paid,’ he explained. ‘You just hand it over when you need to pay.’

‘Anything else I should know?’

He pulled a small device, about the size of a mobile phone, out of his jacket pocket. ‘This is a port-com. Portable communicator. It’s like a more sophisticated flexi-card. You use it to phone people, access the internet, and to pay for things once you have a bank account. You can’t function without one. If I give you just one piece of advice, it’s to get yourself a port-com as soon as possible.’

I nodded. ‘Thanks, Ben.’

He passed me a business card. ‘Call me any time. I’ve taken a new job. Moved on from time travel. I’m now captain of the Inter-Planetary Spaceport, a space station between Earth and the moon. I’m not close by, but if you have any questions or you need help with anything, just call.’

The doorman of the hotel was eyeing me warily. ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’

I looked behind me. No one. I was the ma’am.

‘I’d like to check in.’

He looked around me and frowned. ‘Does madam have any luggage?’

‘I’m travelling light.’

He ran his eyes over me in a way that made me feel very uncomfortable. And then I realised that I was dressed all wrong. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but everyone else – other than those dressed in business suits – was dressed in a long tunic with leggings, like a body-con salwar kameez.

I followed the doorman into the lobby of the Lakeview Hotel. Its cool marble floors, potted plants and prints reassuringly reminded me of my own time. The doorman deposited me at the reception desk and left.

‘I need a room,’ I said.

‘Single, double, deluxe or a suite?’ the receptionist asked in a bored voice.

‘Single.’

‘Your card?’

I handed over the flexi-card and watched as he scanned it over a larger membrane. My picture and name materialised on the membrane, along with information regarding my credit. His expression brightened immediately.

‘Delighted to have you as our guest, Miss Anfield,’ he said, beaming at me. ‘I’ve allocated you a room on the fourth floor. There are beautiful views of the lake from there.’ He handed me back my flexi-card. ‘If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.’

I thanked him and took the lift to the fourth floor. My room was too big to be a single. It had a king-size bed, a large bathroom and separate sitting area with two couches and a large membrane on the wall. I wondered if he had charged me extra for this.

I shut the door. This was it: my home for the next six weeks. And then what? The future lay ahead of me, unlived and unknown, a small stream in the great ocean of time.

I had no clothes to unpack, no book to read, no friends to call. I switched on my new phone and waited for it to power up. Would old technology still work? Would my phone automatically download a software upgrade and continue to function? A tiny part of me held on to a small hope that a time-travelling phone from 2012 would be able to make calls to 2012. The bar at the top of the screen indicated that the battery was full – this little sliver of technology from my own time surviving in this wide new world – but there was no service. I scrolled through my list of favourite contacts – Amy, Connor, Megan, Miranda, Ryan.

Apart from Ryan, they were all dead now.

I pressed the call button next to Connor’s name. I stared and stared at the words.

Call failed
.

Of course it had. My brand new mobile phone was now nothing more than an expensive digital clock. They were all gone. Every one of my friends had lived their lives already. They’d gone to university, chosen careers, fallen in love, had children and grandchildren, grown old or sick and died. I would never see them again.

I tried to find a remote control for the screen – which I assumed to be a television – but there was nothing in the room. There were no buttons on the edge of the screen, nor was there room for them. The screen itself was transparent, like a thin sheet of Perspex hanging on the wall.

‘Television turn on,’ I said to the empty room, feeling foolish.

Nothing happened.

My phone said four in the afternoon. But that was a different day in a different month in a different century altogether. Overcome with weariness, I sat on the edge of the bed. I was tired, alone, dirty, had no change of clothes, no food, no friends and I couldn’t even work out how to turn on the TV. The only person I knew in the whole wide world was Ryan, but he was locked up in a cell waiting for his trial and I had no idea how to help him. Numbly, I flopped back on the bed and shut my eyes tight, longing for sleep to pull me under.

Chapter 7

I stepped outside. The city was monochrome in the pre-dawn light. Tiny raindrops, shimmering in the white streetlights, hit the grey pavement and formed long silver rivers in the gutters. I shivered in my T-shirt and jeans but I didn’t care. I’d woken with resolve. After a long sleep and a hot shower, I felt refreshed and determined. I would find a place to get breakfast, buy myself some clothes and go back to the Space and Time Institute to find out more about Ryan’s trial.

I looked up and down the street, trying to guess which direction would lead me to food. The doorman was different to the one who had seen me arrive. He looked at me strangely. ‘Costume party?’ he asked.

I nodded. ‘Where’s a good place to get breakfast?’

He pointed down the street to my right. ‘Keep walking straight ahead and you’ll come to the lake. Make a right and you’ll come to a diner called the Peacock Feather. Open twenty-four hours. They serve the best potato cakes in the whole of the Federation.’

I walked swiftly down the empty street, my flip-flops slapping against the wet ground. This was clearly the hotel district, a few blocks of wide tree-lined streets with hotels and expensive-looking restaurants. Doormen stood under broad black umbrellas as I hurried by. As I drew closer to the lake, the buildings looked older and I passed a sign that read Old Wolfeboro.

The sharp raindrops stung my bare skin and I picked up my pace. Now there were a few people on the street, wet and bedraggled like me, huddling under umbrellas or in shop doorways. A car whooshed by, sending up a spray of rainwater as it passed. No one paid me the slightest attention.

By the time I reached the end of the road, down by the lake, I realised I had reached the pulsing heart of Lakeborough’s nightlife. On the lake itself, party boats lit up like Christmas ornaments were heading towards the dock. Along the shoreline, bars and clubs were emptying out on to the wet streets. Between the street and the lake was a boardwalk; a bronze statue dominated the space. A man – five times the size of a real man – stood triumphantly, his hands holding up a distorted clock that reminded me of a painting by Salvador Dali we’d studied in art class. It looked almost like it was melting or warped, and the numbers were in the wrong places. I read the plaque:
Nathaniel Westland, creator of four-dimensional travel, was born in Lakeborough in 2020
. I was in Ryan’s hometown. Just knowing that lightened my mood.

I saw the Peacock Feather easily. It was large and loud, a giant feather pushing through its roof. I headed inside and took a table by the window. It was a diner just like I remembered them from Hollywood films, with bright lighting, shiny vinyl seats and endless coffee. But that was where the similarities ended. Once the waiter – a tall, olive-skinned boy with fleshy arms – had filled my mug with bitter black coffee, I opened the menu and was both startled and disgusted. I’d expected burgers and fries. Or omelettes. Perhaps pancakes. Fried, greasy-spoon, carb-laden stodge. Comfort food. My stomach rumbled and I calculated that it had been about thirty hours since I last ate. No wonder I was hungry. But the first few offerings on the menu did nothing to whet my appetite. Kebabs made from in vitro veal. Cricket salad. Spirulina guacamole. Not exactly what I was expecting. Where were the potato cakes? A flush of nausea threatened, but I pushed it aside. I would find something to eat. I would find suitable clothes. And I would help Ryan. He’d done the same in my time.

‘You want the Saturday night special?’ asked my waitress, a bored-sounding girl dressed in green robes that flowed to her bare feet.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Is it vegetarian?’

She shrugged indifferently. ‘If you want it to be.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And more coffee.’

The waitress took my menu and glided away.

The front door swung open and a group of girls came in, dressed in short beaded dresses that looked like they belonged in the 1920s. They grabbed a booth in the middle of the café. I realised I had found the only place where my clothes were not deemed worthy of comment.

My food arrived – grilled portabella mushrooms with a strange, suspiciously fishy tasting pesto, potato cakes, scrambled eggs, grilled tomatoes and thick, dark coffee. I ate slowly, and watched the people around me at the same time. Reassuringly, people didn’t seem so different in the twenty-second century. The girls still giggled too much around the boys; the guys still laughed too loudly. There was the same kind of flirting that went on back home. I smiled to myself. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to fit in.

I finished my food and drank cup after cup of coffee, until the world outside my window transformed. The grey light of daybreak became the saturated colour of daytime. The fresh morning breeze blew the rainclouds away, leaving nothing but a drip, drip, drip from the rooftops and the tepid promise of sunshine. And the weary partygoers of yesterday were joined by the bleary early morning workers of today.