Fissure of Worlds: Mason Timeline, #2

By Kristin McTiernan

She told the truth. And now she's his prisoner.

 

Shannan Fitzroy knows a secret about the timeline. She knows North America was never supposed to be a Catholic theocracy. It was never supposed to be almost exclusively white. And it wasn't supposed to be legal for dissenters to just… disappear.

 

She knows how to put all of it right. But the men who rule will never allow that to happen.

 

As her sanity is slowly worn down by her interrogator, one member of the Council must save Shannan from her sociopathic captor before she submits to her brainwashing. Before she becomes a part of the future that should never have been.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristin McTiernan
• Release date: Jul 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781734920833

Book preview

Prologue

Diary, Shannan Fitzroy

I’m afraid. I’m so afraid my body aches from the shaking. At first it was only when I heard him coming down the hall. But then he started coming in while I slept, and now the quaking never stops.

I can’t open my mouth more than an inch and my wrist is the size of a baseball. I don’t know what to do.

I know I don’t normally talk to you. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that life, until now, has gone pretty well. Besides, Memaw told me you weren’t like Santa Claus—you don’t care about my wishes. So no, I haven’t felt the need to pester you, or even presume you listen. Because most of the time you don’t. You said so yourself.

But in case you do, I would really appreciate your help. Help me help myself. Or just send in a guy on a horse. I’m not picky.

I’ll go ahead and say thank you for my accommodations, I guess. It’s a nice house. If you’re going to be slowly beaten to death by a tattooed sociopath, this is the place to suffer it.

There are more than six bedrooms, but I’m only allowed in one. He said it used to be the maid’s room. All the other doors are closed and he watches every move I make. I know he has cameras in here too. When I first found this notebook shoved behind the bed, I half expected him to burst into the room and rip it out of my hands. But so far, he hasn’t.

It looks like the maid, Elizabeth, was Italian. I can’t read most of the words in the first half of the book. But Alfredo’s name appears on almost every page, and I didn’t have any trouble understanding the tear blots on the last few pages.

I wonder if she died here. Just like I’m going to.

1

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 15 , 2114

Self-loathing is not an especially uncommon trait, at least among the upper class. But for most, it’s a self-indulgent type of hate, the sort that whispers you really aren’t so bad. There were no such caveats in Syed Faran Jatala’s depths of self-hatred. Thirty years is a long time to despise yourself, and it had begun to wear on him. Not just the hatred either. The persistent concealing of it was what exhausted him the most. And he must conceal it.

His one chance—the girl—had not been the harbinger of hope he imagined her to be. Had Allah sent her for him? To tell him to be at peace? Or had he been given his way out, only to let it slip through his fingers? It no longer mattered. Self-preservation demanded he continue with his charade. To express anything other than unmitigated delight at the Council’s decision would be the end of him. These last few months had taught him he was utterly alone in this life—a fate he had earned for himself.

Paul?

Alfredo’s voice snapped him back to reality. Yes, he was Paul, not Syed. At once, his senses returned to him—the muted sounds of the green room, the smell of brewing coffee, and the soft lighting that flattered men of a certain age.

Yes, Alfredo? I’m sorry, I was remembering someone. What did you say?

Despite the flattering lighting, Alfredo looked every bit the tired man in his sixties. He had lost his daughter, for which Paul was sorry, but Alfredo deserved his anguish. That and more. The only upside to this horrible week, these days of seeing his last hope of redemption sputter out, was the mighty Alfredo Jaramillo had been knocked off his perch. Not by his corruption or hypocrisy, but by a twenty-four-year-old girl who paid a terrible price.

I was thanking you for coming here with me today. I hope it isn’t an inconvenience for you.

Javier Sequeira should have been the one to accompany Alfredo to the television studio for this interview; he was the Public Affairs arm of the Council, and for good reason. When it came to force-feeding concocted stories to the unwashed masses, the oily Javier was unmatched. Yet this morning, Paul’s phone had chirped at him with a two-sentence text message. Can’t face it alone. Please come with me.

The uncharacteristic vulnerability of the text immediately put Paul on his guard. Was this a trap? Had they found him out? Of course not. They had all been far too busy with the mysterious girl to fret about him.

It’s no inconvenience, Alfredo, Paul said with his best imitation of sincerity. You’re very brave to do this rather than hiding behind a press release. I admire you and am happy to help.

Neither you nor any other man has a reason to admire me, Alfredo whispered, flicking his eyes at the production assistants seated across the room. You know that better than anyone.

And there it was—the aforementioned indulgent self-loathing, the casting of a line in hopes of coming back with a compliment, a reassurance, that his own niggling self-doubt was misplaced. Now Paul had to put in the performance of his life to placate this horror of a human being.

You did what you could to make the best out of an irreversible mistake. No one can say you haven’t done your penance.

Though they made no movement, Paul could sense the two wiry-bodied PAs shift their attention. They continued their small talk over how unfair it was to work on the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, but Paul knew they were both listening intently to his conversation, hoping to hear any bit of information on her. Not the poor girl who had laid Alfredo low; they knew nothing about her. They wanted to hear about Isabella. Everyone did.

Isabella was the reason why, in the early morning of a holy day of obligation, Paul and Alfredo were at the Channel 7 Television Station. Alfredo had stepped down as Council Chairman; that was indeed news. But it was not the reason every church in the nation rescheduled morning Mass. All of Columbia’s normally devout parishioners, and probably the priests too, were glued to their televisions to hear what had become of Isabella, their ersatz princess. It was unlikely they would be happy with what they learned.

Don Jaramillo? The skinnier of the two PAs called for Alfredo, his index finger pressed into his ear. They’re ready for you in the studio. He stepped away from the coffee pot and tilted his head meekly toward the door. Far be it from him to make demands upon Alfredo Jaramillo.

Of course, young man, Alfredo said in his most paternal tone. He stood, rolling his shoulders back and casting a shadow onto Paul’s face. Wish me luck, old friend.

You have no need of it. This interview is just what the country needs.

With one last self-assured nod, Alfredo followed the PAs out the door, leaving Paul alone in the green room with the silent cleaning woman in the back corner. She had remained seated while Alfredo was in the room, but now with him gone, she stood up and viciously pounded her fist into the palm of her other hand, her eyes fixed on the door he had just walked through.

Paul kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, not sure if the mechanical eyes were still watching. They had been deployed throughout the building, crawling like spiders through the vents, in the walls, keeping watch over Alfredo, ensuring no threats to his safety were present. Paul could not acknowledge the cleaning woman’s gesture. He could not turn his head to give her an approving look when he heard her spit into the trash can. Rather, he kept his eyes glued to the screen in front of him, which was showing B-roll of Isabella in happier times.

The segment was underway. He had the volume turned low enough that he could make out what they were saying without drowning out the noises of the cleaning woman. As she darted here and there, her cart hovering behind her, he caught a few glances of her. Initially, he had taken her for his own age, what with the stooped posture. But now she had come forward to empty out the old coffee grounds and replace them with fresh ones, he could see she was younger, probably in her twenties—still young enough to have hope for the future.

More than her age, what he noticed immediately was her wig. Old, curled, and of a sad dusty color that in no way matched her complexion, it was hard to miss—but of course, that was the point. The woman was either Jewish or Muslim, which is why she was employed as a cleaner in the first place. Her choice of wig was not due to lack of funds, as even the budget options were hard to spot. No, observant ladies wore these obvious and tacky wigs as a bold statement that their real hair, their crowning glory, was reserved only for their husbands’ eyes.

Other than the Catholic Mantilla, no religious head covering was permitted outside of places of worship. Stepping even one toe outside a synagogue wearing a yarmulke would result in a hefty fine for a first offense. There had never been a second offense in the history of the Republic, as the fear of being deported to some Middle Eastern hell-hole overcame any impulse to rebel. It went without saying that Muslima fashions such as the hijab were forbidden. The Senate had decreed, with the Agency’s strong endorsement, that Columbian society must be protected from the slow creep of blasphemy that had ultimately overtaken several European countries, Spain specifically.

The cleaning woman reminded him of what was at stake. Physics degree or no, if he had not publicly converted to Catholicism in his senior year of university, he would likely be cleaning up the floors right along with this girl.

Sir? May I have the trash beside you?

He had not noticed her approach him. Had she moved so silently, or was he so internally focused he had failed to notice her shuffling toward him? She stared down at him, hard.

Of course, he mumbled. He reached for the trash can, only to see it was empty except for a single candy wrapper. He stood up and handed it to her anyway.

As-salamu alaykum, she whispered to him, pounding the trash can against the larger bin on her cart, as if there were something in there to empty.

Paul’s mouth fell open, shocked at her audacity. Anyone could see by looking at him that he was Indian, not European like the rest of the Council. But he was a Councilman and, as far as anyone knew, a rabid Catholic. He had been dispatched to the Senate floor to argue for outlawing other religions’ garments for God’s sake. Yet here this woman was, declaring herself a proud Muslim in the middle of a television station with Alfredo Jaramillo himself not fifty meters away.

Pride, of all things, filled his heart as he looked at the hard set of her mouth. What must it be like to have such bravery, to live your faith against adversity?

Unable to restrain himself, Paul leaned forward to whisper, Wa-alaikum salaam, sister, before darting past her and into the men’s room.

Breathing heavily, he leaned against the cool tile walls, certain he was alone. No one in their right mind would miss the first few minutes of Alfredo’s interview. Tears threatened, but he held them back, swallowing heavily.

Get. It. Together, he seethed, angry he had allowed himself to give in to hope. It had made his decision to deny his faith, his family, his heart, possible to bear. There was no hope now. Not for him. Not for that poor girl. Not for anyone.

Almost as an answer to his despair, Paul raised his eyes and noticed the poster hanging above the urinals, of all ridiculous places. Framed and spotless, the poster was one of those silly corporate motivational quotes with a picture of smiling, suited office workers in the background. This particular quote was one of Alfredo’s from his younger years when he first founded the Agency:

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one. –Alfredo Jaramillo

Snorting in disgust, Paul stormed out, knowing that if he stayed there one second longer, he would rip the poster from the wall and piss on it.

THE SOUND OF THE SHOWER combined with the sweet smell of Reyna’s body wash roused Gabriel Ruiz from his deep and contented sleep.

Auntie, what time is it?

It is 7:54 am, Gabriel, the household computer responded.

Gabriel let out a laugh at his own predictability. Even after going nearly forty-eight hours with no rest, he still couldn’t sleep past his customary wake-up time.

Auntie, turn on Channel 7. On mute.

Certainly, Gabriel. Would you like me to start your vehicle?

Not today.

As the screen lit up in the far corner of his room, Gabriel untangled his legs from the sweaty sheets and refluffed his pillows, making a mental note to call Reyna’s household staff and have them stay home for the rest of the week. He wanted time to reconnect with his beautiful wife. Her showers were normally lengthy, for which he was glad. It would give him time to watch Alfredo’s interview, at least the important part of it. Once she emerged from the shower, he would turn the TV off so not to be distracted from her. He could have so easily lost her—lost everything—had the Council voted the other way. He was not going to waste even a second he had with his family.

The commercial for a local landscaping company came to an end and the pretty face of Julianne Gillespie filled the screen. She was not the only prominent Anglo news reporter in Miami, but she was the only one who hadn’t changed her name to something more Spanish. Young, vibrant, and most importantly, sympathetic to the Agency, Julianne had at once been the Council’s first choice to conduct this most important interview. The camera stayed on her for a moment, her full lips forming silent words. Then the shot cut to Alfredo. The sanctimonious set to his jaw sent a wave of anger through Gabriel’s whole body and he instantly changed his mind.

Turn it off, Gabriel muttered.

Without needing clarification, Auntie took the news off the television screen, replacing it with a scenic image of a Havana marketplace.

He should watch the entire interview. He had intended to sit down and watch it carefully, ensuring Alfredo stuck to the script, take notes on any issues that may need to be corrected or expanded upon later this afternoon. But he simply couldn’t force himself to do it. He couldn’t bear to hear any more about Isabella, nothing more about the gossip surrounding her infidelity, as if it mattered. Nor could he handle noting the subjects that went unaddressed: the fate of Isabella’s saboteur husband, the death of Isabella’s longtime assistant, Elizabeth...

And the girl he had locked away.

The shower shut off and the quick beat of silence allowed another pulse of anger to shoot through Gabriel. Even though he had lost his position, Alfredo still got to pick and choose his own assignments, avoiding all the repercussions of his own actions. Once his interview was over, Alfredo would drive home, likely to a house full of well-wishers and assorted sycophants, not to mention the brigade of women of all ages who would bring him food in the hopes of being the next Señora Jaramillo.

Gabriel, on the other hand, had a far less pleasant task ahead of him. It was likely to be equal parts enraging, saddening, and vomit-inducing. While Alfredo warded off discreet sexual advances and spoonfuls of pasta, Gabriel would be opening a prison cell, ready to escort Etienne Danforth, Isabella’s husband, out of his confinement.

There was another, less taxing errand Gabriel could have volunteered for, but he had been far too cowardly to do so. In these few months of his presidency, Gabriel should have been performing weekly check-ins on the girl’s progress. But every week, he had balked. The memory of her look of fear, of betrayal as Commandante Guerrero led her out of the chamber, still haunted him. Given what she had most likely been experiencing under Guerrero’s tutelage, that same look would no doubt be there to greet him if he went to see her. So after being too busy every week, he had finally relegated the task to the ever-calm, ever-detached Paul Canaan. What a blessing that man had been in this process.

Once the girl’s reeducation process was further along, he would see her. But not now. Not for a while. He would go to see her once it was all settled. She would have a new name, a new outlook on life. She would know, as he did, that keeping the timeline as it was made sense.

The wet, fragrant air rushed across Gabriel’s face as the bathroom door opened, revealing Reyna in her towel. Beautiful Reyna, so ignorant to the change within him. What he had given up, the principles he had betrayed, just to stay with her. He would show her, really show her, what she meant to him.

As he nodded his head, beckoning her to the bed, a deep sense of happiness enveloped him. He had made the right choice for everyone. The world was exactly as it should be.

THE INTERVIEW WAS GOING well. When Paul returned from his brief hideaway in the men’s room, the green room was deserted and he was able to relax on the couch, listening to Alfredo spin his tales into the camera. The key to a good lie was to stay as close to the truth as possible. Alfredo would admit to everything... except the fact their timeline was false. He would not reveal that as a young man, Alfredo had traveled to seventeenth-century England and killed an important nobleman, setting off a massive civil war from which the impressive English empire had never recovered. There would also be no talk of the girl, Shannan. Knowledge of her was confined only to the Council.

The Anglo reporter, Julianne, was excellent at asking her assigned questions without making it seem as if they had been written for her. Tired from this draining week, Paul’s eyes drooped as Alfredo ran through the list.

Yes, Etienne Danforth had sabotaged the Agency equipment to maroon his wife, Isabella, in the distant past.

No, the Agency would not be revealing which time period Isabella had gone to.

Yes, Isabella had lived a long and happy life with a new husband and a community that loved her.

Yes, the Agency had implemented new security measures to ensure this would never happen again.

Please, Don Jaramillo, tell me about the recording your darling Isabella left for you.

Paul’s eyes flew open and he bolted upright. Who in the hell had told her about the recording? Did she know about the girl?

Well, Julianne, said Alfredo, not missing a beat, My daughter is very crafty, and she left her travel beacon in a place she knew would be unearthed by Agency personnel, which is how we know what happened to her. My daughter left two recordings on the beacon. One was the message she left for me, telling me about the happy life she had lived, and for me not to mourn her. There was also one from Etienne, that horrible man, telling her she would never see her home again.

Paul watched with incredulity at the calculated way Alfredo molded his face into a farce of sorrow, but not surprise. He had obviously been the one to tell Julianne about the recording.

I can’t imagine the hatred in a man’s heart that would allow him to inflict such pain on a woman, Alfredo continued, allowing his voice to crack as he looked into the reporter’s eyes. When I think about the terror Isabella must have felt when she realized what happened to her...

He trailed off, subtly concealing a smile when the reporter laid a comforting hand on his knee.

Yet you announced this morning Etienne Danforth will be released from holding, despite his crimes. Julianne flicked her eyes at the camera. Can you explain that decision?

In all honesty, it was because of Isabella. In her final communication, she asked me to pardon him. She reached out across time, not only to assure me that she lived a happy and righteous life, but also with a gesture of forgiveness. Who am I to say no?

Paul rolled his eyes, knowing full well about the kill order Alfredo had given for Etienne. The only reason it hadn’t been carried out was Gabriel’s coup d’état.

Pardoning Danforth was your last act as President and CEO of the company you founded. The technology you made available to the masses has literally changed our world. With everything that has happened, why step down?

Because I am human, Julianne. I have devoted my life to protecting our timeline. I have listened to the pleas of our citizens crying out for us to go back and change horrible acts in history. And I have always said no with the full force of the law, no matter the personal suffering of those who asked.

Alfredo took in a deep breath, readying his pre-written confession. But in my own suffering, I tried to flout those rules to rescue my daughter. And my friend, my priest of more than forty years, had to physically stop me from destroying that which I have always vowed to protect. It is time for me to step down, to place power in the hands of Gabriel Ruiz, whose righteousness is unassailable. You of all people, Julianne, know that the chorus of voices calling for my retirement has gotten louder in recent years. And I am not too proud to say now they were right. There was too much power allocated to me. The Council—all nine members—are responsible for maintaining our timeline. That is how it was designed to be. And that is how it shall be. I’m only sorry it took an act of terrorism to make that happen.

Julianne allowed some silence to pass, understanding the television audience was likely taking a moment to process this bold confession of what should be (and would be, for a lesser man) a capital crime. This has been a hard month for you, personally. Not only was your daughter taken from you, but we also lost Elizabeth, whom you practically raised.

At the mention of Elizabeth’s name, Paul swallowed a lump in his throat. Of all Alfredo’s victims, Elizabeth had suffered the most. The sweet girl who was made a servant in her own father’s house, who knew she was Alfredo’s illegitimate daughter, yet never asked for a thing. Such a pretty girl, a sweet and loving person. And now she couldn’t even be buried with the family she served her whole life.

Alfredo took a long, shaky breath. Elizabeth’s suicide was truly horrific. I blame myself for that every day. I was so consumed by Isabella’s disappearance, I failed to even consider how devastated Elizabeth was. After her mother, our household manager, abandoned her, I made Elizabeth my ward. She was such a good girl. And so devoted to our family. I should never have... I fired her. When she slapped that reporter, I just couldn’t deal with it in the proper way. I sent away the only person who loved us unconditionally, with no agenda.

The reporter nodded, tears filling her eyes. In a way, you lost two daughters.

Yes, Julianne. That is perfectly true.

A grinding sound filled Paul’s ears as he gnashed his teeth, drowning out the simpering response from the reporter. This day was almost over, and with any luck, he would never have to be in the presence of Alfredo Jaramillo again.

2

Diary, Shannan Fitzroy

Julio had me watch the interview this morning. Sitting on the couch next to him, his arm heavy across my shoulders, all I could think was there were no black people on the television. Not in the commercials, not in the preview segments for the rest of the news program, and there were no black faces in the exterior shots showing downtown Miami. The faces were European and Latino. All of them.

I guess the mind does weird things when it’s afraid. Instead of focusing on Julio’s body pressed up against mine, I focused on the lack of black people. Instead of listening to the pretty reporter ask about everything but me, I focused on the picture of Isabella hanging in the corner of the room. I had met her as an old woman, but in her youth... she was a heartbreaker.

So what did you think? Julio asked me when the interview finished. I didn’t know what to say; specifically, I didn’t know which answer would make him happy enough to forgo my daily beating. I had already learned never to look away from him when he was speaking to me. If I looked away from his face, even for a second, his hand would be around my throat. But I wasn’t allowed to make eye contact either.

I only made that mistake once, on my second day here. He didn’t stop choking me when my vision blacked, or when I went limp. He only stopped when I pissed myself. Then he let go and watched me cough and sputter and gasp for air. Once I was quiet again, he took off his clothes—all of them—and said clean them.

And I did. I curled up in the recliner in Isabella’s laundry room while the cycle was going, begging you to help me, to give me a way out. But you haven’t. Maybe you’re off helping someone in worse straits. Or maybe you just don’t care. That’s what you told Memaw... that you were done coming to us.

I did good with Julio this morning. I didn’t actually answer his question though. I kept my eyes firmly on his mouth and said, I’m wondering why Elizabeth killed herself. And I’m wondering why you’re keeping me in this house if I’m supposed to be a secret. That had actually made him smile, which was terrifying.

Elizabeth didn’t kill herself, he said. Alfredo just made it look that way. A sloppy solution for a lazy man.

I flinched backward when I saw his hand move, but he only brushed a strand of my hair off my face.

If it had been my decision, Elizabeth would still be alive, as loyal and silent as I wanted her to be.

He tilted my chin up, allowing me to look in his eyes for the first time. Was he telling me he didn’t want me dead? That everything would be all right if I did as I was told? He’d already made it clear I could never leave the house or exist in society since everything is based on biometrics. I didn’t know what he was trying to say, and I was too afraid to ask him again. Having him touch me with anything but anger was too rare an occurrence for me to ruin it.

So I just sat there with him, waiting for him to speak next.

Go back to your room now.

And I did. I went back to my room. And then I started writing to you, crying in shame. Because for a minute there, I was hoping my psychopathic captor would kiss me.

ALFREDO SLUMPED IN his chair, trying his best to ignore the crush of well-wishers filling the first floor of his house. He had intended to have his farewell reception in the gardens, but the heavy afternoon rain shower ruined the idea. So here he sat, smashed between Carlo DiMarco and his wife, Flora. Known for her effusive friendliness and jiggling, massive breasts, Flora had chosen a particularly low-cut dress today, beyond inappropriate for an afternoon gathering.

Oh, Alfredo, you must be disappointed Gabriel couldn’t come, she said, batting her eyelashes. It’s so unfair you’re outnumbered like this. She gave a knowing smile to the clusters of women in every corner of the room, all shooting covertly murderous glares in Flora’s direction.

Carlo was deeply involved in his own conversation with one of the younger girls at the party and paid no attention to his wife as she casually draped an arm across Alfredo’s shoulders. Though Flora was a friend of many years, and certainly more tolerable than the encroaching hangers-on in his house, he had no interest in speaking with her. He was desperate for information about the Council, and having all these people in his house made it impossible for him to ask anyone.

The moment Julianne signed off from the interview segment and the camera clicked off, Alfredo had received two text messages—one from Paul saying he was heading over to check on the girl and another from Gabriel, begging off from the party. His absence was expected, given the circumstances. Alfredo had no desire for that rat bastard to be in his home. Even thinking of Gabriel churned ugliness through his chest and stomach.

They say the final step of mourning is acceptance, and he had hoped the interview would provide the cathartic sense of finality he’d been waiting for these last few months. He’d been able to accept Isabella’s loss. The moment he heard the recording of her aged voice, telling him she loved him, it sank in that she was gone. His daughter was dead and there would be no getting her back. The grief had come full force then, and he was able to mourn her rather than continue planning