Time's Echo: A CHRONOS Files Novella by Rysa Walker Page B
Authors: Rysa Walker
Tags: United States, Historical fiction, Science-Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Time travel, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Teen & Young Adult, Two Hours or More (65-100 Pages)
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a beat, looking around at the patrons, then starts singing in a slightly louder voice:
I had a friend named Bill
Campbell
Who used to rob, steal, and gamble.
He did most everything that was
low-down…
As soon as the crowd hears the
first line, it's like someone rang the schoolbell .
Everyone freezes and most of them dump the contents of their glasses onto the
floor. The seats empty as people dash toward the back of the room, pushing to
get through a small door that I'd have sworn wasn't there a moment ago. Most of
those on the dance floor don't even bother to grab the things they left at
their table.
The toast to New York's Finest suddenly
makes sense, although I'm guessing the men at the door are federal agents, and
not the local police. The band keeps playing, while waiters quickly scoop the
remaining glasses onto trays, rushing them to the backroom.
I told him over'n over again
To lay off the whisky, lay off
the gin.
He's in the jailhouse now.
Elsie abandons Simon on the dance
floor, grabs my glass, which is still full, and flings the contents into
Tillie's face.
"It's a raid!"
I don't know if it's the shock of
the liquid or the word itself, but Tillie staggers to her feet and they half
run , half stumble to the rear exit.
Simon stands in the middle of the
dance floor, the CHRONOS key in his hand, singing along with the music, until
the officers are maybe ten feet in front of him. I have no clue how he manages
to pull up a stable point in his current condition, but he does, flashing out
in full view of everyone in the room.
The next notes from the band are
off-key, and then the song fades into silence. With every sober eye in the
place still glued to the spot where Simon vanished, I pull the key out of my pocket,
crouch beneath the nearest table and follow him.
∞
New
York City
July
25, 1929 – 1:17 a.m.
It was 1:17 a.m. when I left
the club. I locked in the date and the stable point we set back in our suite,
not bothering to change the time. Simon must have taken the same shortcut,
because he's there, cackling like a chicken, when I pop in.
"Damn it, Simon. You knew,
didn't you? You knew there was going to be a raid at that place. "
"Of course, I knew! Tha's why I picked September 10th. So we could see it, you
idiot. Wha's the point of having the key if you
can't—" His expression turns serious in mid-sentence. " D'you set a stable point back at the Epicure?"
"No."
He slumps down onto the sofa.
"Well tha's a royal pisser."
Unsure what realization has
brought his mood crashing to the ground, I latch onto
the only reasonable option. "I think the girls got out, if that's—"
"What? No. They were prob'ly hookers anyway. So what if they spend a night in
jail."
"Then…why?"
"So I could go back and see their
faces when I popped out. The chica who was singing,
did she—"
"Yes, she noticed you. She
looked like her jaw was going to hit the floor. Are you happy?"
"I'd be happier if she was
here. My room lacks the feminine touch, know what I mean? Maybe she's with the
house band. She could be singin ' there tonight. Come
on."
"You're crazy."
"Why? It's only a year
earlier. And if not, we c'n get some other
girls." He picks up his jacket from the chair and pulls it on.
"I'm not interested in
getting a girl."
He snorts, searching around in his
jacket pocket for something. " Anythin ' you wanna tell me, Kier?"
"No," I say. "I
just…I don't think Prudence—"
"Never
stopped you before. In Paris, you couldn ' keep your hands offa … that…" Simon
trails off as his hand comes out of his pocket holding the pill bottle.
My brain starts spinning, trying
to cook up a believable lie, but Simon's too wasted to question why the pills
didn't work. Or maybe he's just happy to have the sensation of being drunk
again.
Seeing the pills does seem to have
taken a little of the wind out of his sails, though. Giving the bottle a foul
look, he pulls off his dinner jacket and tosses both the container and
I had a friend named Bill
Campbell
Who used to rob, steal, and gamble.
He did most everything that was
low-down…
As soon as the crowd hears the
first line, it's like someone rang the schoolbell .
Everyone freezes and most of them dump the contents of their glasses onto the
floor. The seats empty as people dash toward the back of the room, pushing to
get through a small door that I'd have sworn wasn't there a moment ago. Most of
those on the dance floor don't even bother to grab the things they left at
their table.
The toast to New York's Finest suddenly
makes sense, although I'm guessing the men at the door are federal agents, and
not the local police. The band keeps playing, while waiters quickly scoop the
remaining glasses onto trays, rushing them to the backroom.
I told him over'n over again
To lay off the whisky, lay off
the gin.
He's in the jailhouse now.
Elsie abandons Simon on the dance
floor, grabs my glass, which is still full, and flings the contents into
Tillie's face.
"It's a raid!"
I don't know if it's the shock of
the liquid or the word itself, but Tillie staggers to her feet and they half
run , half stumble to the rear exit.
Simon stands in the middle of the
dance floor, the CHRONOS key in his hand, singing along with the music, until
the officers are maybe ten feet in front of him. I have no clue how he manages
to pull up a stable point in his current condition, but he does, flashing out
in full view of everyone in the room.
The next notes from the band are
off-key, and then the song fades into silence. With every sober eye in the
place still glued to the spot where Simon vanished, I pull the key out of my pocket,
crouch beneath the nearest table and follow him.
∞
New
York City
July
25, 1929 – 1:17 a.m.
It was 1:17 a.m. when I left
the club. I locked in the date and the stable point we set back in our suite,
not bothering to change the time. Simon must have taken the same shortcut,
because he's there, cackling like a chicken, when I pop in.
"Damn it, Simon. You knew,
didn't you? You knew there was going to be a raid at that place. "
"Of course, I knew! Tha's why I picked September 10th. So we could see it, you
idiot. Wha's the point of having the key if you
can't—" His expression turns serious in mid-sentence. " D'you set a stable point back at the Epicure?"
"No."
He slumps down onto the sofa.
"Well tha's a royal pisser."
Unsure what realization has
brought his mood crashing to the ground, I latch onto
the only reasonable option. "I think the girls got out, if that's—"
"What? No. They were prob'ly hookers anyway. So what if they spend a night in
jail."
"Then…why?"
"So I could go back and see their
faces when I popped out. The chica who was singing,
did she—"
"Yes, she noticed you. She
looked like her jaw was going to hit the floor. Are you happy?"
"I'd be happier if she was
here. My room lacks the feminine touch, know what I mean? Maybe she's with the
house band. She could be singin ' there tonight. Come
on."
"You're crazy."
"Why? It's only a year
earlier. And if not, we c'n get some other
girls." He picks up his jacket from the chair and pulls it on.
"I'm not interested in
getting a girl."
He snorts, searching around in his
jacket pocket for something. " Anythin ' you wanna tell me, Kier?"
"No," I say. "I
just…I don't think Prudence—"
"Never
stopped you before. In Paris, you couldn ' keep your hands offa … that…" Simon
trails off as his hand comes out of his pocket holding the pill bottle.
My brain starts spinning, trying
to cook up a believable lie, but Simon's too wasted to question why the pills
didn't work. Or maybe he's just happy to have the sensation of being drunk
again.
Seeing the pills does seem to have
taken a little of the wind out of his sails, though. Giving the bottle a foul
look, he pulls off his dinner jacket and tosses both the container and
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