Invictus Chapter 1

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INVICTUS

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by RYAN GRAUDIN

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Little, Brown and Company

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N e w Yo r k B o s t o n

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the

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author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or

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persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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Copyright © 2017 by Ryan Graudin

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Cover art copyright © 2017 by [TK]. Cover design by [TK]. Cover copyright © 2017 by

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Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright.

The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

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The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your

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support of the author’s rights.

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Little, Brown and Company

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Hachette Book Group 1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

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Visit us at lb-teens.com

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First Edition: September 2017

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Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

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Excerpt from “East Coker” from FOUR QUARTETS by T. S. Eliot. Copyright 1940

by T. S. Eliot. Copyright © renewed 1968 by Esme Valerie Eliot. Reprinted by permission

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of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data TK

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ISBNs: 978-0-316-50307-5 (hardcover), 978-0-316-50313-6 (ebook)

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Printed in the United States of America

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LSC-C 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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01 02 03 04 05 06

PART I

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Out of the night that covers me,

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Black as the pit from pole to pole,

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I thank whatever gods may be

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For my unconquerable soul.

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— William Ernest Henley

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“Invictus”

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1.

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THE BOY WHO SHOULD

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NOT HAVE BEEN

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May 5, 2371

15 “State your name.” The med-droid’s automated voice was

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cut clean, every syllable filed down to replicate a Central accent.

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Why machines needed accents, Far didn’t know. Maybe the pro-

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grammers added this touch of humanity to put the med-droid’s

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patients at ease. The tactic had failed, though the robot couldn’t

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be faulted for Far’s discomfort. Sitting tail-naked on an exam-

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ination tabletop wasn’t exactly Relaxation 101. The stainless

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steel surface was a few degrees shy of frosty, nipping places on

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his body where cold had no business going.

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“Farway Gaius McCarthy,” he answered.

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The med-droid recorded the reply, shifted seamlessly into

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the next question. “State your date of birth.”

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Far sighed. They asked this question. Every. Single. Time.

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And every single time he answered, the med-droid’s computers

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would whir through the census databases, find nothing, and

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state in its elegant accent: “Answer invalid. Restate your date of

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birth.”

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This routine was old hat. He’d done it scores, if not hundreds,

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of times, for all the scores, if not hundreds, of Simulator exams

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he’d taken at the Academy. The anticheating measures—a full

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stripping and thorough identity scan before every Sim ­session—

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seemed extreme, but as Far’s instructors had taught him, time

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travel demanded flawless precision. Cheating now could lead

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to world-ending catastrophes later. Maybe. Time’s immutabil-

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ity was something much debated by the Corps, who were too

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afraid to test their theories in case they ended up changing the

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future they lived in—butterfly wingbeats and whatnot. Thus,

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perfection was their MO.

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Traveling the Grid—exploring the past in real time—was

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Far’s only future. He’d been raised on a steady diet of serialized

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datastreams and Burg’s expedition stories: outrunning veloci-

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raptors, witnessing Vesuvius’s rage against the night sky, survey-

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ing the great Dust Bowl of the 1930s. But watching pixels flicker

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through screens and listening to an old man’s recounted adven-

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tures wasn’t enough to sate Far’s hunger. Even the Sims’ state-

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of-the-art sensory replications, with their sounds and smells and

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hologram people imbued with enough artificial intelligence to

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mimic an interactive scene from history, weren’t enough.

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He wanted to meet history face-to-face. He wanted to be

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the blood in its veins, as it was in his. Far was a McCarthy—

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son of one of the most beloved Recorders of her generation.

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Everywhere he went, Empra’s name followed. Older Academy

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instructors always did a double take when they came across Far

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in their class rosters. You’re Empra’s boy, they’d say, along with

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some version of: She was a bright girl, one of my best students.

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It’s such a shame about what happened to the Ab Aeterno. . . .

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His mother’s legacy and loss were always there, pushing Far

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to be the best, always the best. And he was. Today he’d pass his

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final exam with flying colors, like he always did, and receive his

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license. Today his Sim score would earn him a coveted space on

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the crew of a Central Time Machine. Tomorrow he’d be explor-

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ing many yesterdays ago, documenting momentous events for

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scholars, scientists, and entertainment moguls alike.

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But first—first!—he had to get past this pragmatic med-

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droid. “State your date of birth.”

“Can we just skip this part?” Far shifted on the table, a vain

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attempt to keep his unmentionables from going numb.

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“Answer invalid. Restate your date of birth.”

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“April eighteenth, 2354 ad.” Far tried the date that made

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him seventeen and a smidge. It wasn’t his true birthday, but that

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didn’t stop his cousin Imogen from buying him gelato and stick-

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ing sparklers in it every year. He’d tried to make 4/18/54 official,

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but no clerical worker could be persuaded to fill the blank gap

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on his birth certificate. Far’s birth outside of time had to stay on

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the public record, for historical purposes. Med-droid malfunc-

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tions be hashed.

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Speaking of: “Answer invalid. Restate your date of birth.”

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Far attempted the date he used whenever he was trying to

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impress a girl. The date that made him 2,276, minus a smidge.

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“December thirty-first, 95 ad.”

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“Answer in—”

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“I know, for Crux sake! I don’t have a hashing birthday!”

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Far knew it was useless to get mad—he was the glitch, not the

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med-droid’s programming—but sometimes it just felt good to

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yell. “I was born on the Ab Aeterno!”

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The examination room door slid open. A living Medic stuck

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her head around the corner. Her features were as edged and ele-

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gant as the Hindi on her ID card. A stethoscope dangled from

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her neck, competing for space with gold-tinted headphones. “Is

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something wrong—oh!” Her face brightened. “Hello, Far!”

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“Hey, Priya.” He grinned at the Medic and tried oh-so-

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subtly to tense his abdominal muscles. “Like the headphones.

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Where’d you find them?”

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“Some hawker in Zone Four was trying to pass them off

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as genuine BeatBix, asking three thousand credits for them.

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Can you believe it? With the BB logo facing the wrong way and

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everything.”

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“I’d expect nothing less from a Zone Four hawker,” Far told

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her. “One of them tried to convince my cousin that a kitten with

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an awful dye job was a red panda cub.”

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“Aren’t red pandas extinct?”

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“Exactly. So what’d you haggle him down to?”

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“Two hundred and fifty credits.” Priya’s rip-off headphones

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gleamed as she shrugged. “Could’ve gone lower, but some prices 20

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aren’t worth the fight. Hawker gets to pay his bills and I get

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to listen to Acidic Sisters through something other than my

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comm.”

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“Answer invalid,” the med-droid informed them in its tire-

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less cadence. “Restate your date of birth.”

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“Ah. Birth date question again?”

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“Never not,” Far said.

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Being a Medic in an age where droids made up fifteen per-

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cent of the population required training beyond human biology,

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so like most of her peers, Priya doubled as a mechanic. She pried

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open the med-droid’s chest plate and rearranged some wires—a

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routine Far had seen her perform scores of time—to bypass

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the question manually. “You’d think they’d have this bug fixed

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by now.”

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Far laughed as he offered his arm for the inevitable blood

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sample. Of all the Medics who came to intervene with his exam-

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ination hitches, Priya was his favorite. She always pretended the

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problem lay on the med-droid’s end and not his. And where her

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coworkers were quick to scurry off—their silence like fear—

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she lingered, often close enough for him to hear the notes beat-

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ing through her headphones. Today it was a punk-tech ballad.

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Catchy to the max.

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“So . . . your final exam Sim. I’d ask if you were nervous, but

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who am I kidding?”

He laughed again. Nerves were for people who didn’t know

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what the future held, and his was pretty clear: valedictorian of

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his Academy class, acer of Sims. Sure, final exam Sims were the

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toughest of the bunch. You could get anything from Neolithic

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bonfires to a twentieth-century high school keg party to watch-

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ing King John sign the Magna Carta. The goal was simple—

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record the event and study the people without being noticed.

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One misstep and you could be thrown out of the Academy tail-

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first, banned from time travel forever.

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Far didn’t make mistakes, however, just calculated risks.

“Got any song suggestions for my impending victory dance?”

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“Classic or current?”

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“Classic. I’ll need to get used to some historic beats once I’m

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licensed.”

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“Let’s see.” Priya tapped her chin. “There’s Queen’s ‘We

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Are the Champions’ and DJ Khaled’s ‘All I Do Is Win.’ Oh—

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and you can’t go wrong with Punched Up Panda’s ‘Top of the

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Rise.’ M.I.A. has some good ones, too.”

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Far made a note of the band names on his interface so he could look them up later. “Queen, Khaled, Panda, M.I.A. Got it.”

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“You should breathe.” The Medic’s smoky eyes flickered

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from Far’s exaggerated, oxygen-starved abs to the vitals graph

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on the med-droid’s chest. “You’re skewing the readings.”

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Ah! She’d noticed! Perhaps not in the way he’d intended, but still . . .

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“When will you go once you pass?” Priya asked.

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That was the question, wasn’t it? Far had spent his entire life

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watching other times. A whole quilt of cultures and humanity . . .

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prehistory, ancient Greece, ancient Rome, medieval Europe, the

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Renaissance, the Age of Enlightenment, the Industrial Revo-

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lution, the Age of Progress, all the way to Central time. And

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that was just the Western Civilization track. So much was still 22

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unexplored—for while there were hundreds of licensed time

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travelers, there were only so many CTMs to go around. The

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finite life spans of the explorers they did carry covered just a

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fraction of history.

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The possibilities were endless. Almost.

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“I could go back and kill Hitler,” Far joked. “Isn’t that every

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time traveler’s dream?”

Priya shot him a you shouldn’t kid about that look from

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under her bangs.

“Whenever the Corps wants to send me, I guess,” he recanted.

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“You don’t have any preferences? You aren’t scared you’re

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going to get stuck trying to collect bubonic plague cultures from

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corpses in the name of science?”

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When Far was fourteen, he watched a datastream of the

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Black Death. Even at that age he could tell it was highly edited:

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choppy shots, faded audio. The Recorder taking the footage had

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gagged at a blurred-out cart piled high with bodies. “Not my

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first choice.”

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When the med-droid finished its ritual pricking and prod-

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ding, it rolled toward the door, calling Far along. “Proceed to

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the next chamber to acquire your final exam Sim wardrobe.”

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“I want to see it all,” he told the Medic.

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“Speaking of seeing it all . . .” Priya bit her lip, but her smile

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was too strong to hide. Every other corner of her face lit with it

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as she nodded to the door where the med-droid had vanished.

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“You should go get dressed.”

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Far found his final exam Sim suit in the next room, pressed

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to perfection and composed of too many pieces. Wool stockings

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went on first, followed by knee-length breeches and a dress shirt

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with rabid lace frothing from its ends. These ruffles peeked

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out of a blue waistcoat embroidered with vines and some long-

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extinct flower Far couldn’t remember the name of. A green-

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and-gold-striped coat weighted all this into place. The outfit

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was bookended with leather shoes and a powdered wig.

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“Not the plague, then,” Far muttered as he reached for the stockings.

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He’d experienced a few Sims from the eighteenth century—

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witnessing the signing of the United States’ Declaration of

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Independence, sailing the Pacific as part of James Cook’s crew,

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watching the streets of revolution-era Paris crumble into parades

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and chaos—but it wasn’t a time he’d studied thoroughly.

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It made sense. The point of the exam was to demonstrate

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how well you could improvise. Time travelers had to use cos-

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tumes, knowledge, and technology to blend into their sur-

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rounding environments. On board a traditional CTM, the

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responsibility for providing flawless covers fell to the Historian.

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They assembled the Recorder’s wardrobe: clothes, hairstyle, and

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translation technology . . . the works. They were responsible for

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briefing the Recorder on the time period they were walking into.

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They ID’d key historical figures and sent instructions about how

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to behave over the comms.

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During examination Sims, the Historian’s role was played

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by a computer linked directly to Far’s comm. It greeted him

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with the same accent as the med-droid: “Welcome to your final

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examination Sim, Farway Gaius McCarthy. Your mission is

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to observe and record an hour-long datastream. You will be 24

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graded on the quality and content of your datastream as well as

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your recording methods.”

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The usual, then. Far snapped his breeches into place.

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For Crux sake, they were tight. It was a miracle the human

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race managed to keep procreating after years in pants like

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these. . . . “When exactly will we be going?”

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“May fifteenth, 1776 ad. Seven o’clock in the evening.”

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The shirt was snug, too, and the waistcoat pushed the ruf-

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fles up so they feathered Far’s neck, making him feel ostrichlike.

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“Who wears this many layers in May?”

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“The residents at the Palace of Versailles,” the computer

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informed him.

Versailles. A glamorous den of royals, where the air was

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prickly with wig powder and the golden halls swished with

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gowns so voluminous they could second for circus tents. There

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were girls in Far’s Academy class who would kill—or at least

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significantly maim—to be placed in such a Sim.

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Far shouldered the overcoat, secured his wig, and ran

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through his pre-Sim mantra: I am Farway Gaius McCarthy,

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son of Empra McCarthy. Birth date unavailable. With timeless-

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ness in my blood and nowhere calling to my heart. Born on the

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Ab Aeterno, for Ab Aeterno. I am a single Sim away from all of

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time.

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The Palace of Versailles, France, 1776 ad would be a cinch.

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He switched on his recording devices and stepped into

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the Sim.

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