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  Skyline

  Copyright © 2016 by Zach Milan. All rights reserved.

  skylinebook.com

  zachmilan.com

  Pond & Frame Press

  Denver, CO

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016934769

  ISBN 978-0-9973457-0-4 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-0-9973457-1-1 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-0-9973457-2-8 (e-book)

  For Jeof,

  I can’t believe my luck

  To be in this timeline

  With you.

  CHAPTERS

  PROLOGUE

  1. THE ASTROLABE

  2. ANACHRONISM

  3. LEANOR

  4. THE BLAST

  5. DIVING IN

  6. NELLIE BLY

  7. THE FIRST BOMB

  8. CONSEQUENCES

  9. PIER FIFTY-FOUR

  10. CHARLOTTE AND FELIX

  11. THUNDER AND LIGHTNING

  12. CONFRONTING LEANOR

  13. BILL’S PLAN

  14. CHANGES

  15. OUT OF IDEAS

  16. ANA CHRONISTIC

  17. THE FUTURE

  18. BACK TO THE PIER

  19. NEW YORK REGAINED

  20. THE PLAZA HOTEL

  21. HOME

  22. REELING

  23. LADY LIBERTY

  24. FORT WOOD

  25. SAVING CHARLIE

  26. WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

  27. THE NEW BLAST

  28. THE EMPTY ERA

  29. THE COUNCIL

  30. THWARTED

  31. NEGOTIATIONS

  32. THE WAY OUT

  33. THE FINAL BOMB

  34. TOO MANY FAREWELLS

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A NOTE ON TIME TRAVEL

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  COMING SOON

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  APRIL 8, 2016

  A burnt-apple smell pervaded New York City. The sun rose, the humidity blasted, and the subways trundled along their way, but as far as anyone was concerned, only the smell mattered. Doctors’ appointments ran long, patients too distracted by the scent to focus on their problems. Businessmen relaxed, laughing despite their workload. Strangers on subways struck up conversations with one another. Discussing the smell was like talking about a particularly hot day: absolutely necessary even though everyone else was already doing it.

  Good Morning America brought in an olfaction scientist and added a new segment on their favorite apple pies. CNN had several interviews about the last mystery smell, when the city woke up to a maple syrup scent, with scientists speculating what had caused this one: a factory in New Jersey? A “burp” from the Upper Bay? An atmospheric irregularity? Anderson Cooper, his nose pinched in a large clothespin, sent his crew throughout the city to discover where the smell was the strongest, but it was just a joke, a way to fill time.

  No one knew the origin. No one could stop smelling it after hours of exposure.

  But at noon, no one cared about the joke of a burnt-apple smell.

  For a single second the sky of New York City illuminated with white light. Two bright lines, each three blocks wide, cut through Manhattan. One swept up from the Statue of Liberty to the Plaza Hotel. Another flashed between Roosevelt Island in the East River and Pier Fifty-four on the Hudson. After the second passed, the sky returned to normal, but the light had destroyed everything in its path. In a heartbeat, the blink of an eye, a flap of a pigeon’s wings, a crooked cross was carved into the city.

  The lines had cut deep into the subway tunnels, into the sewers below, until nothing was left but rock, sloping up at a curve to the newly formed cliffs. The buildings left intact tottered on the edge, twisting until they tumbled into the new pit. Subway trains rushed along their broken path, arcing out into the sudden daylight and crashing onto the newly exposed rocks.

  Water sprang forth, gushing west from the East River, east from the Hudson, and north through Battery Park. It met at the center—where the New York Public Library had once been—with a colossal wave crash, taking stunned New Yorkers along with it. Those who could gain their bearings fast enough fled the subway platforms, scrambling up stairwells. The roaring water helped them up the final ten feet, leaving them gasping beside the submerged entrance.

  Survivors throughout the city gaped, their lunch companions suddenly gone. Whole families evaporated, but those that only lost a daughter or son didn’t feel lucky. Hundreds of businesses vanished, only a few lucky late-to-work employees survived.

  In total, one million two hundred thousand fifteen people were lost.

  The city erupted in fury and fear, no one sure whether anywhere was safe. Every news organization grappled with the sudden shift from funny to tragic. No one could make sense of the morning’s events, no one could understand what happened at noon.

  Every policeman and fireman was called in, trying to calm people without answers. Swimming into the subways to save the stranded thousands inside. Evacuating people from the rare buildings that had only been half-destroyed.

  A state of emergency was declared, with politicians promising resolution, a fight against whatever terrorist had committed this heinous act. The President demanded peace, calm, and a mindset of kindness. This wasn’t an inside job; America had to stand together to endure.

  New Yorkers rose to the challenge. With so many missing, those remaining were cherished. The newly homeless were accepted into strangers’ apartments. Restaurants and bodegas provided free meals to anyone in need.

  Midnight came, but no one slept. Everyone’s eyes were glued to their various screens, hoping for any sign of how this had happened.

  The tragedy was on everyone’s lips, but instantly hushed, like a demon that would appear once named.

  The Blast did more than decimate New York City; it changed the course of every New Yorker’s life.

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  In the days that followed April 8, 2016, scientists scrambled. Politicians postured. New Yorkers mourned.

  How could this happen? Who did this? And why would anyone do such a thing?

  No terrorist organizations rose to claim the attack. No forensic evidence was found no matter how many divers were enlisted. No letter of demands followed. The Blast had no specifics besides its destruction.

  Every American said, “Never again.” But how could a second Blast be avoided? If whoever made the Blast wasn’t finished, what would keep them from initiating another? And another?

  Years passed. People focused on rebuilding, revitalizing the city. It was the beginning of a Golden Era for New York City. A time for reinvention, imagination, and connection.

  The Blast remained on everyone’s minds, but they stopped wondering how, why, or who.

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  But I know how an entire cross-section of New York City could be taken out at once. I know why someone would do such a thing. Which means, naturally, I know who did it.

  I did.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE ASTROLABE

  JUNE 23, 2023

  Charlotte stomped away from the shadows where she hadn’t been seconds before. She paused in her huff to let her eyes adjust to the dark, setting a glass orb into her large leather purse. This section of the Mid River’s waterfront was unused at night, aside from a single softly lit bar a few doors away. Outside Suni’s sat Leanor, exactly where Charlotte had left her.

  Three years of hard work, and t
onight Charlotte would regain what she’d lost.

  At least she hadn’t lost Leanor.

  While everyone else was lit by glowing cigarettes and phone screens, the older woman was bathed in moonlight, content to sit peacefully and wait. Her eyes reflected the lights of the Triangle across the water, glittering toward Charlotte.

  When Charlotte reached the table, she collapsed onto a chair beside Leanor and took a long drink from her beer. Despite all her time away, the glass mug hadn’t lost its ridge of frost. Would she ever get used to that?

  She set the now half-full glass down with a thud, fished a crumpled page from her pocket, and then tossed it onto the metal table.

  Leanor didn’t even bat an eye. “No good?”

  “Everything was wrong. Too far, too dirty, too mundane, too obscure, too sensational.”

  Her boss arched a white eyebrow. “Eons of time, and everything’s too too?”

  Through squinted eyes, Charlotte couldn’t decide what Leanor was saying. Either she was commiserating, or she was teasing. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Charlotte said. “Monroe’ll know when to go.” It’d taken hours to come to that decision.

  She should’ve had a better solution for all her work.

  Leanor lifted the crumpled ball and smoothed it out into Charlotte’s list. Written with a burnt sienna crayon—always readily accessible since her son Charlie had decided it captured her color best—were a series of dates, all crossed off. “Perhaps it’ll be better this way.”

  Charlotte glanced at her watch, then shook her head. “Providing he isn’t late.”

  Leanor reached over and laid a hand on Charlotte’s back, rubbing. Even through Charlotte’s starched white shirt, Leanor’s hand felt cool. She always didn’t quite fit. Cool in the warm air now, too hot at winter. That was Leanor: a little out of place.

  For a while, that was Charlotte, too. Now it was time to fit back in.

  Releasing her shoulders, Charlotte sighed her tension away.

  Leanor drew back her hand and took a drink of her water. Set it down. Paused, then asked, “And Felix? Charlie?”

  “Easy,” Charlotte said. She’d decided on this plan almost a year ago. “I’m going to introduce Charlie to Dad. And Monroe’ll come, obviously. But I wanted …”

  Charlotte looked to the darkened Mid River the Blast had made seven years ago. After a rumble, a brightly lit subway train shot out under the water and disappeared below the landmass across the way. The Triangle formed by the southern and western arms of the Mid River was bright with revelry, but silent from across three blocks of water. A tiny light pushed away from the Triangle’s shoreline: a gondola crossing the river. “I wanted a little brother-sister time first.”

  Leanor didn’t reply, and Charlotte didn’t look over.

  Maybe she should’ve had her husband and son arrive first. But no, Monroe would be furious if he didn’t get to see Dad, too. Anyway, he was the history lover. It made more sense to give Monroe all the time he needed, then pick up Felix and Charlie for their trip together.

  Charlotte smoothed out the side mohawk that Monroe had insisted would suit her. He had never cut his own hair, but he liked directing hers. And he was right, she got compliment after compliment—so long as it fell to the left. The light grew larger, close enough to split into two. One lamp at the front of the gondola, one at the back. Monroe claimed the two lights signified the dual paths of the Blast, but Charlotte liked to think it was simply for usefulness: one lamp to light the way, one to show where the boat ended.

  As the vessel neared Charlotte plucked the glass sphere from her leather bag. She weighed it in her hands—heavier than its grapefruit size suggested—staring into its inky depths. They’d named it an astrolabe, but it looked nothing like the old metal devices captains used for navigation. “I can’t believe we’re finally done.” She looked from the orb back to Leanor, one side of her lips tugging upward. “I’m going to miss you.”

  Now that they’d completed the astrolabe, it was time for Charlotte to settle back into her family. To reconnect with her husband, be her child’s caretaker, hang out with her twin brother. After this past year of long hours and busy weekends, it would be nice to focus her energy on home instead. But would she drift away from Leanor even worse than she had her own family?

  As Charlotte centered the glass sphere on the circular table, Leanor’s cool hand fell onto hers. “Don’t worry.” Her tone was joking, but her eyelids hooded her blue eyes, dimming their usual brightness. “You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

  “I just meant …” Charlotte began, but shook it off. Leanor understood; she always did. Why else would there be sadness in her eyes tonight? From her purse on the ground, Charlotte pulled a folded piece of purple velvet and shook it, letting it fall across the orb. The fabric settled, wrinkles leading up to the bulging middle.

  Ready to impress Monroe.

  When Charlotte looked up, her mentor’s slate eyes were almost staring through her. “I mean it, Charlotte. We’re not done. If anything, this is a beginning.”

  Some other project? Or maybe Leanor wanted her input on the future of this device. “I hope so,” Charlotte said.

  Before she could continue, ask what Leanor had in mind next, Monroe’s voice came from across the water, “Char!”

  Tonight, whatever they did, whenever they went, was about her and him.

  “Thank you for tonight,” Charlotte murmured, standing up from her chair.

  “He’s going to love it,” Leanor said, and together they watched a shining black gondola glide up to the thick rubber that ran along every edge of the Mid River.

  Monroe leaped out—suddenly illuminated in the bright gondola lights—and the boat teetered dangerously in the waves he’d made. Monroe didn’t look back; he splayed his arms wide, matching his grin.

  Her twin was nothing like a mirror—all smiles and softness, long hair, skinny and tall and dressed in an embroidered dragon shirt. All they had in common was copper skin, black hair, and crooked smiles, which Charlotte now matched. “’Roe,” she said to herself and began walking the distance toward Monroe as he closed it with a run. When they met, he crushed her into a hug, his skinny arms squeezing tighter than she ever expected.

  He pulled back and said, “Good to see you, sis. It’s been”—he stretched out his face as he elongated the final word—“ages.”

  She chuckled, but it had been a while. Four months since their birthday, three more since Christmas. Tonight would change that. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Not just me,” Monroe said, twisting back to the gondola, still rocking on the shore. “I hope it’s okay.” Charlotte followed his gaze and saw a wide, jeans-clad leg step into the light. Then a T-shirt, the belly underneath stretching what had to be a sci-fi logo. Because the bald, bearded man stepping from the boat was Monroe’s geeky boyfriend, Bill.

  Charlotte had to pinch her eyes shut and grind her teeth together, just so she could speak the words, “Of course.” Monroe went back to grab Bill, but Charlotte remained rooted to the ground. Bill could ruin all of this, ruin her surprise, make this a normal night instead of something amazing. But Charlotte held a hand out, trying to arrange her face to be pleasant, kind, accepting. “Bill, good to see you. Still working at Starbucks?”

  Bill took her hand, and she found herself squeezing too hard, her bicep flexing. But Bill squeezed back, smiling through his dark beard. “For now. Figuring out what’s next.”

  A shiver ran through Charlotte. She and Bill always seemed to be on the same page, no matter when they met. But then, he didn’t seem enraged to see her.

  “I can’t believe it’s ready,” Monroe said. Bill slid an arm around his back, Monroe tossed his long black ponytail, and the men walked beside her back to Leanor.

  Who sat smiling.

  “I told Bill all about it,” Monroe continued. “A modern astrolabe, usable even on starless nights, even if GPS cuts out. For kids, for captains, for k-k-k”—Monroe snappe
d his fingers—“kooky astrologists.”

  “It sounds fascinating, Charlotte,” Bill said, his deep voice as eager as Monroe’s.

  Charlotte didn’t reply to either of them. She couldn’t.

  When they reached the table, Leanor stood, patted her curly white hair, and offered a hand. “Monroe, always good to see you. And Bill? A pleasant surprise.”

  Pleasant? There was no way Charlotte could show Monroe the orb now. Illuminating it out here was one thing, but after that … Charlotte liked Bill well enough; that didn’t mean he should be included.

  Why didn’t Leanor seem bothered? Because Bill was white, like Leanor? Charlotte had learned the benefit of traveling with a white person. Because of his shirt? Now that she looked, Charlotte realized that the logo was from a show about a doctor who traveled through time. Or because of something else entirely?

  How could this be a pleasant surprise?

  Bill’s forehead crinkled downward. “Surprise? But Monroe—”

  “I told him it was okay,” Monroe said. “Didn’t you say this was a fresh start?” His smooth hands closed around her calloused ones, squeezing. All she could feel was their differences. He and Bill happily together, Monroe having fun for the past year instead of working longer and longer hours, the fact that he seemed fine without her. Coming here was just a lark to him, not vital.

  “I’ll get drinks,” Bill said, his pale green eyes darting between Monroe and Charlotte. She couldn’t imagine what look her face was giving. “Monroe, the jalapeño thing? Charlotte, need anything? Leanor?” He paused, but no one replied. “Back in a bit.”

  As soon as he disappeared through Suni’s doorway, Charlotte exhaled.

  “It’s been months,” she said, twisting on a single heel to Monroe. “Months and I—”

  “Whose fault is that?” Monroe lifted his hands and waggled them like an asshole. “I invited you to trivia in January; you were busy. Ice skating in February; you’d gone with Charlie already. To go with Charlie to the LEGO store in April; you and Felix were on a date. A date.”

  Charlotte crushed her teeth together, holding in her retort.