Rewinder

Book 1: Rewinder

by Brett Battles

Genres: Alternative History sci-fi; Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Time Travel; YA Action & Adventure; YA Science Fiction

Synopsis

You will never read Denny Younger’s name in any history book, but the world as you know it wouldn’t be the same without him. Denny was born into one of the lowest rungs of society, but his bleak fortunes changed the day the mysterious Upjohn Institute recruited him. The role: “verifier of personal histories.” The job title: Rewinder. After accepting the offer, Denny discovers he’ll have to do his research in person…by traveling through time.

Using a device capable of opening a portal into any era from the past, Denny is sent back to serve as an eyewitness to significant moments in human history. But as he journeys across the centuries, he begins to suspect that his missions to “observe and report” have a much darker purpose. When a time jump drops Denny into the midst of a rebellion, he finds himself in over his head in a deadly game where even the smallest choices can have catastrophic consequences.

Armed only with his wits and his time-travel device, Denny’s adventures take readers on a pulse-pounding journey of page-turning twists. But will everything he’s got be enough?

Revised edition: This edition of Rewinder includes editorial revisions.

Release date: July 21, 2015

Publisher: 47North

Print pages: 274

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

 

 

“Where are the others?” Lidia asks, one hand wrapped around my neck, the other pressing the tip of a knife against the skin below my ear.

 

“The others?” I ask.

 

“Bernard and everyone who was with us. Where are they?”

 

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

 

I start to choke as her grip tightens. “Don’t lie to me!” she yells. “You said you knew when the break occurred and you fixed it. But that’s not true, is it? You never fixed it.”

 

“I . . . can’t . . . breathe.”

 

A few moments pass before her grip loosens to the point where I can breathe again.

 

“Where are they?” she repeats.

 

“They went home.”

 

“You’re lying. You obviously never changed the world back. Where are they?”

 

I say nothing.

 

Her knife presses inward, releasing a trickle of blood. “I know you know what’s going on. I could see you were lying when we all met. That’s why I only jumped into the woods. I wanted to see what you were going to do. When I realized that you waited to be last, I knew I was right. What happened to them?”

 

“Where’s Iffy?”

 

“Answer my question!”

 

I shake my head. “I don’t see her, you won’t learn anything.”

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

 

STOP.

 

I read somewhere that everyone is the hero of his or her own story.

 

Maybe that’s true for most people, but not for me.

 

Of all the rules we were taught before we were allowed to travel in time, one stands above all: Don’t screw anything up.

 

I didn’t mean to, but, well . . .

 

Here I am, Denny Younger, destroyer of worlds.

 

You wouldn’t be here if not for me.

 

REWIND.

 

MY TIMELINE.

 

NOT YOURS.

 

I was born an Eight—the level of my family’s caste.

 

In my great-grandparents’ time, Eight was referred to as the labor class, but seventy-five years ago, Parliament converted everything to a numbered system. “To avoid confusion” is a quote used in textbooks.

 

The most common direction in which people change caste is downward. Rarely can one rise to a higher level—something my father often reminded me. “The best you can hope for,” he’d say, “is a fair boss and a decent roof over your head. If you have that, then you have nothing to complain about.”

 

My mother, on the other hand, was not of the same mind. Though she knew we were limited by our caste, she’d tell me and my sister—when my father wasn’t around—that we were different from others and that if we worked very hard, there was a chance we could be assigned a position that wouldn’t include lugging tools between machines for the rest of our lives. I was eleven when my mother died after someone’s vehicle got stuck in front of the tram she was on.

 

From my devastation grew the desire to prove her right and show my father something more was out there for me. While I always did well in school and achieved the highest marks, I began not only studying the lessons we were assigned, but reading well beyond my educational level and learning about things I would have never otherwise been taught.

 

History turned out to be one of my favorite subjects, becoming an obsession I couldn’t feed fast enough. At the community library three tram stops away from home, I walked the roads of ancient Greece and Rome, I witnessed the sweep of Genghis Khan’s army through Eurasia, and I experienced the growth of our mighty British Empire as it embraced territories around the world, including my own North America.

 

As much as possible, I would check out books and then stay up late reading them. Sometimes after my sister Ellie became sick, I would sit in her room and read to her. I like to think it eased her pain, and she always said she enjoyed it, but who knows.

 

Typically a kid from one of the lower castes such as ours enters the workforce upon reaching the age of sixteen. In my case this would have likely meant learning machine maintenance from my father at the power plant on the western edge of New Cardiff.

 

But my study habits paid off, and much to my father’s dismay, I was granted two additional years of education beyond my sixteenth birthday. This all but guaranteed I’d be able to train for a supervisory job, something that sounded a whole lot better to me than following in my father’s footsteps.

 

Because I knew these final two years would be the end of my formal education, I studied even harder, soaking in all I could.

 

Maybe that’s why the two years flew by, because before I knew it, it was time for the test.

 

The test is officially known as the Occupational Placement Examination, and it is mandatory for all students to take at the end of their last year of formal education. The only exceptions to this are those moving on to university, but these students usually come from the middle and upper castes—Sixes and up. The students at my school are Sevens and Eights, and one girl who is a Nine. The only way one of us will ever set foot on a university campus is as a custodian or groundskeeper.

 

The exam is a mix of questions that we’re told were designed to help determine the best place for us within the workforce. For those who take it at sixteen, it almost always results in an assignment with one of their parents, but for those who have completed the extra two years, it will determine if we are able to break our family’s lot.

 

The exam’s arrival saddens me. I’m not ready to give up learning and could easily spend years with my nose in a book. But I’m at the end of my educational options, so I reluctantly join my fellow students on the N-CAT Train to the New Cardiff Civic Testing Center overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

 

The facility consists of twenty identical buildings set side by side, each several times longer than they are wide. We’re taken to the one with the letter D above the door. Inside, tables abut each other, creating five rows that run the length of the structure’s single room. On both sides are chairs, many of which are already filled by students from other schools.

 

Over the next twenty minutes, more kids my age file in, until every seat is taken. Here and there you hear hushed conversations, but for the most part we are silent.

 

I can’t help spending the time thinking about Ellie. My sister died before finishing her primary education, and I know she would have been granted the additional two years in school, as she was even smarter than I. In my mind, I’m taking the test for both of us.

 

Unsmiling exam proctors move along the aisles behind our chairs, placing testing booklets and pens in front of us. When all the materials are handed out, the head proctor, sitting on a raised platform at the front of the room, leans into a microphone and says, “You have ninety minutes. Begin.”

 

The sound of flipping pages fills the air, but the booklet in front of me remains closed. I know it’s meaningless, but I want to put off the inevitable for as long as I can. I sense confused glances from some of the nearby students, but it’s the stiff hand of a proctor on my shoulder that finally ends my holdout.

 

“You’re wasting time,” she said. “Get to it.”

 

Her accent marks her as true English, not North American. While there are plenty of people on the West Coast from the isles where our kingdom began, it’s unusual to find one in such a mundane position.

 

“I said, get to it,” she tells me again.

 

I open my booklet and begin.

 

There are questions on mathematics and language and the sciences and four whole pages on history. The last, of course, I breeze through, wishing the whole test focused on the past. There are other questions, too, ones that have nothing to do with what we’ve learned at school, that have us comparing ideas and ranking items and generally probing into areas society frowns on discussing. If they’re designed to make us feel uncomfortable, they’ve done their job with me. I rush through these sections and soon find myself at the end of the test. As I close my booklet, I notice that despite my delayed start, I’m one of the first to finish.

 

There’s no clock to tell me for certain, but it feels as if nearly a half hour passes before the head proctor announces, “Time. Close your booklets and put down your pens.”

 

After the exams are picked up, we’re dismissed with only a “You will receive your results at your school on Monday.”

 

Relieved chatter fills the room as we file out. Even I can’t help but feel a bit of elation, and I end up laughing and joking with my fellow classmates. On the tram ride home, we compare notes and realize we weren’t all given the same test. Several had questions on farming techniques and others on food preparation or carpentry or gardening. None other than I had more than a handful of questions on history, which makes me wonder if each exam was tailored to test our perceived strengths.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There are four pegs on the wall in the entryway of the home I share with my father in the western part of New Cardiff known as the Shallows. His work coat hangs from his. I place my school jacket on mine. The other two pegs, Mother’s and Ellie’s, have been empty for years.

 

I find my father in the kitchen eating some of the stew I made several days ago. More is warming on the stove, so I fill a bowl and join him. Quietly we have our meal together in the same way we’ve done since it’s been just the two of us. What wasn’t gutted out of my father when my mother died was ripped away when Ellie finally

succumbed to her disease.

 

My sister was his favorite. The oldest child. His only daughter. I’ve always known it. She knew it. Even Mother knew.

 

Since Ellie’s death my father has stewarded me into adulthood by doing only what’s absolutely necessary. I tell myself it’s because he fears losing me and has built up a wall so that if anything happens to me, he can go on living. But whatever his reason, I hate him for being this way. I have, however, come to accept the status quo of our emotionless coexistence.

 

I’m halfway through my stew when he gets up from the table and carries his bowl to the sink.

 

“Test day, wasn’t it?” he says.

 

“Yes,” I reply, mildly startled by the question. This is already the longest conversation we’ve had at mealtime in six months.

 

He nods to himself. “When do the results come in?”

 

My wishful thought that maybe the ice has finally broken vanishes as I realize the true meaning of his question. What he really wants to ask is, when am I moving out and relieving him of his parental duties? “Four days,” I say, trying not to let my scorn show.

 

“Monday, then.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

He finishes cleaning his bowl, puts it on the rack to dry, and leaves without another word.

 

I wonder what conversations are like in the homes of the other test takers. I imagine nervous excitement, planning, and maybe even a little dreaming as parents hope their child might be able to achieve more than they did. Something my mother would be doing if she were still here.

 

I decide then and there that if I’m assigned to a position even remotely connected to the power plant where my father works, I’ll run away. I don’t care if it means I have to become a casteless vagabond. The drop to the bottom of society will be worth not having to ever see him again.

 

Suddenly having no desire to finish my stew, I toss it in the trash, wash out my bowl, and retreat to the sanctuary of my room.

 

School is still held on Friday and Saturday, but since the test has been taken, there’s little for us to do but help our professor prepare her classrooms for her next group of students.

 

Like on the trip home from the testing facility, everyone wants to talk about the exam. Unfortunately, the conversation I had with my father has soured me on the topic. If fate is as cruel as I’ve been brought up to believe, I’ll be assigned to the power plant, so I spend my time thinking about where I’ll escape to. A large city would probably be the best idea. New Cardiff, for example, but since we live just within the city’s boundaries, it’s a little too close for me. San Francisco to the north would work or even all the way up to Georgetown, but east seems like a better bet. St. Louis, perhaps, or Chicago, or even as far as the city of New York.

 

Once I get wherever it is I go, I’ll find work that’ll earn me enough to survive. That’s all I need, I tell myself. Just enough so I can afford food and a place to stay.

 

Sunday I go to church as I always do. I’m not particularly religious, but after my mother died, my father stopped going. So it’s a few hours on my only day off that I don’t have to spend cleaning our home while he checks everything I do.

 

When Monday finally arrives, I’ve pretty much settled on Chicago as my initial destination. If I don’t like it there, I can continue east to the Atlantic coast. What it gives me is a starting point I can hold on to for now.

 

There are thirty-two students in my group. My assigned spot in our classroom is in the third row, off to the side. When I walk in for my last day ever of school, the room is already half-full. This is unusual. We still have thirty minutes until the start of class. Typically, most students arrive a few minutes before the top of the hour, but of course this is not a typical day.

 

Professor Garner walks in right at eight o’clock and takes his place behind his desk.

 

After shuffling through some papers, he looks up and says, “Good morning.”

 

“Good morning, Professor,” we reply in well-practiced unison.

 

“A big day,” he says, as if we don’t already know that. “I’m sure you’re all wondering about your results.”

 

A few of the other students nod as he looks around, but most of us are too nervous to move.

 

“You’ll be happy to know they arrived thirty minutes ago and will be brought out shortly.”

 

A murmur of excitement runs through the room. I don’t partake in this, either.

 

The professor raps the top of his desk with the stone he always keeps there. “This may be your last day with me, but I will not tolerate interruptions.”

 

Once the room quiets down, he says, “Before your results are handed out, I’d like to take a few minutes to express my thoughts on your time here and how you may use it in the future.”

 

If not for the earlier admonishment, his announcement probably would’ve been met by a collective groan. As it is, shoulders sag and jawlines tense, but all stay quiet.

 

The few minutes he promised for his lecture has so far turned out to be nearly an hour of self-indulgence. Somewhere around “discipline, such as you’ve learned here, will be invaluable to . . .” I tune out and turn my thoughts back to plans on how best to leave town.

 

I’ll go home right away, where I’ll grab whatever I need, and leave before my father returns from work. After that, a tram to the Los Angeles district in the center of New Cardiff, where I can buy a third-class ticket on a train heading east with the money I’ve been saving in an envelope under my desk. Not sure how far that will get me, but it’s a start.

 

I’m deep in these thoughts when I realize the professor has stopped talking and is walking toward the door. He pulls it open and says, “We’re ready,” to someone outside.

 

Around me, others shuffle in their chairs as they pull themselves from their own daydreams.

 

The professor returns to the desk and says, “Mrs. Parker is fetching your results now. When I call your name, you will come down. Once you’ve received your envelope, you are dismissed. Please don’t open your results in the classroom, as this might interfere with others coming down to get theirs.” He pauses. “Finally, I want to finish by saying it’s been a privilege to instruct you. I wish you all good health and productive lives in the years ahead.”

 

As he finishes speaking, the door opens again, and old Mrs. Parker enters, a stack of envelopes in her hands. One by one, she hands them to the professor, and he then reads the name on the front.

 

Nearly all the results have been handed out when I finally hear him say, “Denny Younger.”

 

I shoot out of my seat and take the steps two at a time. I know I’m not going to like what’s inside that envelope, but I want to get it over with.

 

After Mrs. Parker confirms I’ve been given the correct results, I exit the room. I’m sorely tempted to open the envelope in the hallway, but too many other students are already doing that and I’d rather express my anger privately.

 

I leave the school grounds and don’t stop until I reach my house. A part of me is worried that my father has decided to stay home today to learn my results as soon as possible, but the house is thankfully empty.

 

I stand at the kitchen table, envelope in hand, hesitating before I rip open the top. I’m hovering at the demarcation point of when my childhood ends and the rest of my life begins. Given the importance of the moment, I decide to use a knife to slice a clean cut through the flap. The envelope contains a single sheet of paper.

 

Why would there be more? I think. It doesn’t take a thick sheath of documents to tell me when to report to the plant.

 

The embossed symbol centered at the top and highlighted with gold ink surprises me. It’s not from my father’s power plant. In fact, I don’t recognize it at all. Printed below this are a few lines of black type: