into his mic, “Taylor, clear.”
On the departure-hall feed, the Rewinder nods and lifts a Chaser.
The very instant he disappears, the companion arches on her bed as if shot through by a jolt of electricity. She then drops back down and writhes on the mattress, her hands clenching and unclenching as her arms jerk against the restraints. This only lasts a few seconds before she arches again.
The process plays out four times before she lands back on the bed and stays there. With skill and speed, the room attendant plunges a syringe into her arm. After a moment, her tremors begin to subside and she falls back, either asleep or unconscious.
Marie steps forward. “Can you play back the event please?”
The data attendant does so, and it’s no less disturbing the second time around.
“There are two stages to each jump,” Marie tells us. “Pre-arrival and post-arrival.”
The attendant runs the video once more, this time pausing on a frame in which the companion is arching her back.
“Pre-arrival,” Marie says. “The GO button has been pushed and the Rewinder is in transit. We call this the journey arc.”
She nods at the attendant and the video moves forward, pausing again when the woman is twisting on the bed.
“Post-arrival. The shot she was given helps mitigate the pain and allows her to rest.”
“Why wasn’t it given to her before the jump?” I ask.
“Because that would reduce her ability to deflect the pain,” the attendant says.
“Idiot,” Lidia whispers in my ear.
“You saw four journey arches,” Marie says. “This is because the Rewinder is going quite a distance back, and has used the automated controls to make the journey in smaller hops. This helps alleviate much of the pain he would feel upon arriving at this destination if he did it all in one jump.”
“How far did he go back?” I ask the attendant.
“One hundred and fifty-three years.”
Incredible—1861.
“So a short trip wouldn’t be so bad on a companion, right?” Kimberly, one of the other trainees, asks.
“The post-arrival phase would be less painful,” Marie says. “But for the journey arc, the pain is consistent no matter the span of time traveled.”
“Even just five years?” I ask, thinking about our trip to Chicago.
“Even just five years.”
Marie and I witness two more departures before we leave the companion-monitoring center.
Once we’re alone, I ask, “Do the companions have to stay in those rooms all the time?”
She shakes her head. “If their Rewinder isn’t traveling, their time is their own.”
I’m relieved to hear this.
“Who will my companion be?” I ask.
“One will be assigned at the end of training. You’ll find out then.”
I was kind of hoping she’d say I would never find out. I’m not looking forward to knowing who it is I’ll be putting through agony every time I jump.
CHAPTER NINE
F ROM THE BEGINNING we were told training would last three months. What wasn’t made clear to us was that this only meant three months in 2014. The reality is that the final three weeks of practical experience last as long as one’s instructor feels is necessary. When you go back in time, you can stay there as long as you want and still return minutes after you left. So, for those who are still plodding away in my home time, three and a half weeks for them could be four months for me.
I’m not complaining. The time I spend with Marie traveling into the past is nothing short of amazing. Our first “case” is to trace the family lineage of an institute patron named Sir Lionel Mason. We move slowly, rewinding first Sir Mason’s own life, witnessing snippets of his successes and failures, making sure to note everything. We then move on to his parents, and then his parents’ parents, and so on, each step back expanding the number of people we must track. We’re on the job for nearly three weeks of real time—living and breathing time—before Marie is satisfied with my
On the departure-hall feed, the Rewinder nods and lifts a Chaser.
The very instant he disappears, the companion arches on her bed as if shot through by a jolt of electricity. She then drops back down and writhes on the mattress, her hands clenching and unclenching as her arms jerk against the restraints. This only lasts a few seconds before she arches again.
The process plays out four times before she lands back on the bed and stays there. With skill and speed, the room attendant plunges a syringe into her arm. After a moment, her tremors begin to subside and she falls back, either asleep or unconscious.
Marie steps forward. “Can you play back the event please?”
The data attendant does so, and it’s no less disturbing the second time around.
“There are two stages to each jump,” Marie tells us. “Pre-arrival and post-arrival.”
The attendant runs the video once more, this time pausing on a frame in which the companion is arching her back.
“Pre-arrival,” Marie says. “The GO button has been pushed and the Rewinder is in transit. We call this the journey arc.”
She nods at the attendant and the video moves forward, pausing again when the woman is twisting on the bed.
“Post-arrival. The shot she was given helps mitigate the pain and allows her to rest.”
“Why wasn’t it given to her before the jump?” I ask.
“Because that would reduce her ability to deflect the pain,” the attendant says.
“Idiot,” Lidia whispers in my ear.
“You saw four journey arches,” Marie says. “This is because the Rewinder is going quite a distance back, and has used the automated controls to make the journey in smaller hops. This helps alleviate much of the pain he would feel upon arriving at this destination if he did it all in one jump.”
“How far did he go back?” I ask the attendant.
“One hundred and fifty-three years.”
Incredible—1861.
“So a short trip wouldn’t be so bad on a companion, right?” Kimberly, one of the other trainees, asks.
“The post-arrival phase would be less painful,” Marie says. “But for the journey arc, the pain is consistent no matter the span of time traveled.”
“Even just five years?” I ask, thinking about our trip to Chicago.
“Even just five years.”
Marie and I witness two more departures before we leave the companion-monitoring center.
Once we’re alone, I ask, “Do the companions have to stay in those rooms all the time?”
She shakes her head. “If their Rewinder isn’t traveling, their time is their own.”
I’m relieved to hear this.
“Who will my companion be?” I ask.
“One will be assigned at the end of training. You’ll find out then.”
I was kind of hoping she’d say I would never find out. I’m not looking forward to knowing who it is I’ll be putting through agony every time I jump.
CHAPTER NINE
F ROM THE BEGINNING we were told training would last three months. What wasn’t made clear to us was that this only meant three months in 2014. The reality is that the final three weeks of practical experience last as long as one’s instructor feels is necessary. When you go back in time, you can stay there as long as you want and still return minutes after you left. So, for those who are still plodding away in my home time, three and a half weeks for them could be four months for me.
I’m not complaining. The time I spend with Marie traveling into the past is nothing short of amazing. Our first “case” is to trace the family lineage of an institute patron named Sir Lionel Mason. We move slowly, rewinding first Sir Mason’s own life, witnessing snippets of his successes and failures, making sure to note everything. We then move on to his parents, and then his parents’ parents, and so on, each step back expanding the number of people we must track. We’re on the job for nearly three weeks of real time—living and breathing time—before Marie is satisfied with my
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