Oliver follows her out of her office. She fills the awkward silence between them with small talk. “Did you grow up in Boston?”
If she had bothered to read his letter, she would know the answer. It was all there, his entire life in three paragraphs. “Winchester.”
“How lovely.”
Oliver gets the feeling she would say the same thing if he said he lived at the bottom of the harbor.
They turn a corner. “And what is it you do, Mr. Rhodes?”
His stomach sinks. “I graduated on Friday, so you know…” He is in limbo, caught between a life that has ended and one that hasn’t yet begun. Lucy congratulates him anyway.
They reach a set of brushed-steel doors. “When you arrive at Aevum, you’ll check in at reception, then I’ll escort you here, to the travel stations,” Lucy explains. She places her palm on a rectangular scanner, and the doors slide open with a hiss. She motions Oliver inside.
“What did you say you studied?” she asks.
Oliver didn’t say. Now, he tells her: “History.” Technically, his degree is in history and museum studies, but the throbbing at his temples hasn’t improved since he left the waiting room, and he isn’t in the mood to field any more questions than necessary from Lucy.
Her eyes light up. “Oh, I bet you’ll come up with some fantastic excursions.”
He smiles politely. The idea of time travel never crossed his mind until Theo gave him the letter, and he hadn’t seriously considered it until ten minutes ago.
Lucy’s high-heeled footfall echoes off the polished concrete floor as they cross the windowless room, closer to an airplane hangar than the bright white science lab depicted in Aevum’s pamphlets. She claims an empty travel system in the corner, a cylindrical chamber made of thermally shielded titanium and state-of-the-art fused silica glass, according to her pitch. She sits at the desk in front of it and the display activates. Oliver takes the seat across from her. A contract appears on the thin glass panel between them.
“First, the ground rules,” Lucy says as the tiny print scrolls slowly past. “Should you choose Aevum for your time travel needs, one of our trained medical professionals will inject you with our proprietary recall chip before your first excursion. No chip, no travel. Understand?”
“Yes,” Oliver says, though he’s not entirely sure he does.
“Good. That’s the most important piece out of the way.” She continues: “The chip links you to this location in your present time. When your contract with Aevum is complete, the chip will be removed by a member of our medical team. You may request removal at any time, but such a request will terminate the rest of your contract with us. Any attempt to remove the chip yourself prior to the end of your contract will result in immediate recall and/or immediate ban from time travel at Aevum or any other agency that is currently operating or may operate in the future.” Lucy glances at him to make sure he is following. Oliver nods.
“The chip will automatically recall you here after twelve hours have passed on your excursion. Upon recall, thirty seconds of your present timeline will have been lost to you. Aevum offers no compensation for any time lost in your present timeline.”
“Can I go for longer?” Oliver asks. He will take as much time as he can get, even if it is only an extra hour.
“I’m afraid not,” Lucy says. “Aevum has found that a twelve-hour travel window grants clients a five-star experience. We want travelers to be excited to try another adventure, not return to the lab cranky and exhausted.”
In other words, she wants to keep him coming back for more.
“There are also the logistics. Our clients don’t pay to sleep through six to eight hours of an excursion. It’s much better value to return to your present for all your basic needs.”
Oliver doesn’t care about exhaustion or good value or sense. He can’t be the only one looking to escape his present for as long as possible. “No exceptions?”
Lucy gives him a tight smile. “No exceptions.”
He sags back into his chair.
Lucy goes on: “You may recall at will before twelve hours have passed; however, you will be charged for the full excursion. The implant will recall you automatically in the case of an emergency; however, you will be charged for the full excursion.”
“An emergency?” Oliver asks.
“Mostly they fall into two categories. The first is a medical emergency. The recall chip monitors your vitals. If it senses you have come to any bodily harm—if you suffer a moderate to severe injury, fall ill, or otherwise require medical attention—you will be recalled.”
“And the second?”
“An intervention, in case you find yourself somewhere you shouldn’t be. Don’t even think about boarding theTitanic, Mr. Rhodes.”
“Because I could die?” Oliver asks.
Lucy sighs. “Because it’s a lot of paperwork.”
