Buck spends the next few days doing something that feels unnatural. He tells the truth, although carefully shaped.

  He sits in the common room at supper when most of the boarders are present, lets his voice carry just enough, and says, “I signed on again for another trip. I leave in about a week. I’ll be gone a while. But I’ll come back here when I return.”

  It is the kind of statement that builds a story other people can hold onto. Something simple enough to repeat, boring enough to be believed.

  A few heads nod. A few eyes narrow. Maeve does not react at all, which is how Buck knows she’s listening.

  Elysia reacts immediately.

  “You have to promise,” she says, loud enough that a few people laugh.

  Buck looks down at her. “Promise what.”

  “That you come back,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Not just say it. Promise it.”

  The room quiets in that way that isn’t quite silence, but feels like it.

  Buck kneels so he’s closer to her height. “I promise.”

  Elysia stares into his eyes as if she’s checking for loopholes, then nods once, satisfied.

  “Good,” she says. “Because I’m going to be different again.”

  Buck’s throat tightens. “So will I.”

  She frowns. “You won’t.”

  “Maybe not outside,” Buck says gently. “But inside.”

  Elysia seems to accept that, the way children accept mysteries as long as they’re spoken with confidence. She runs off, already distracted by something else, already bright again. Buck stands and feels the familiar tension return.

  He has one week. One more year is coming. He needs the next year to do work on his behalf.

  That night, he walks alone to a moneylender’s office B.U.C.K. points out as reliable in this part of the city. Not kind, not ethical, but predictable. Predictable is sometimes the only option.

  The man behind the desk looks Buck over slowly, like he’s appraising a horse.

  “Who do ya know,” he asks.

  Buck holds out a small list of names. Not references exactly, but enough proof he exists in the neighborhood. Enough that Maeve’s boarding house name carries weight.

  The moneylender smiles without warmth. “You want a loan for a year.”

  Buck nods.

  “High interest that,” the man says.

  “I know,” Buck replies.

  The moneylender writes some numbers down as scratches traced in ink, folds the small paper. He slides it over with a nod not saying a single word. Buck reads it twice, slow and steady, the interest is indeed high, but he thinks he can make it work and still clear a tidy profit. He signs the single sheet of paper with the terms of the loan, then leaves with a moderate sum that feels heavy in his pocket, like a second heart that could ruin him if it stopped.

  Outside, he exhales and lets his shoulders drop.

  That was risky business, B.U.C.K. says.

  “It was,” Buck agrees.

  But brilliant, the AI adds. I hate that I’m impressed.

  “Get used to it.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The next morning, Buck approaches Maeve when the common room is nearly empty.

  He does not mention the loan.

  He tells her the ship paid him out and gave an advance to sign on for the next trip. A small windfall. He says it like it’s annoying, like it’s not important, like money is just another piece of logistics.

  Maeve watches his face for a long moment.

  “Why are you telling me,” she asks.

  “Because I want to invest,” Buck says. “In this place.”

  Maeve’s eyes narrow. “Invest?”

  “Fix the windows. Patch the roof. Replace that back step that tries to kill people,” Buck says. “Make it nicer. Charge a little more. Keep the good people, lose the ones who bring trouble.”

  Maeve snorts. “You can’t lose trouble. It follows rent.”

  Buck smiles. “Then make trouble pay more.”

  That earns a short laugh from her, the first Buck has heard that sounds like it came from somewhere deeper than fatigue.

  “What’s the catch,” Maeve asks.

  “No catch,” Buck says. “I want a percentage. Paid annually. And if I’m not here to collect, it accrues. Interest per month.”

  Maeve’s expression hardens again. “That sounds like a moneylender.”

  Buck holds up a hand. “Not like them. I’m not coming to break your knees. I’m coming back when I come back. This is a partnership.”

  Maeve looks at him like she’s trying to decide which kind of foolish he is.

  “You want to be a silent partner,” she says finally.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t want your name on anything.”

  “No.”

  Maeve’s eyes flick toward the door, toward the street, toward the places danger tends to collect.

  “Smart,” she mutters.

  Buck waits.

  Finally, Maeve nods once. “Half.”

  Buck blinks. “Half of what.”

  “Half the money you’re offering,” Maeve says. “I’ll take it. I’ll use it. And I’ll pay you your share. With your little interest scheme.”

  Buck exhales. “Deal.”

  Maeve leans closer, voice low. “If you’re lying to me.”

  Buck meets her eyes. “I’m not.”

  Maeve studies him, then reaches out and squeezes his forearm once, hard enough to hurt a little.

  “That’s for coming back,” she says, and walks away before the moment can become anything else.

  ________________________________

  With the remaining money, Buck buys quiet, boring things.

  Not gold, not gems, not anything that screams theft. Goods that will be more valuable next year because the city will want more of them. Simple tools. A small set of quality steel implements. A few items B.U.C.K. claims will spike in demand with a known shortage in the next season. Nothing dramatic, just the kind of advantages that compound when no one is watching.

  He stores what he can safely carry. The rest, he prepares for the Time Locker.

  That night, the eve before the next surge window, Buck lies on the bed with the lamp turned low. The edges of his thoughts are soft. Not drunk, but warm. He has had just enough to let his guard loosen without letting it fall.

  “Hey,” he says quietly.

  Hey, B.U.C.K. replies.

  “Tell me about my mother.”

  There is a pause.

  Then, gently, the correction.

  Our mother, B.U.C.K. says.

  Buck blinks at the ceiling. “What?”

  She was my mother too in a way, the AI replies, voice softer than usual. Not biologically. Don’t get weird. But she made me. She talked to me. She trusted me with you. That counts.

  Buck swallows. “Okay. Our mother.”

  The room feels smaller suddenly, like it is making space for something sacred.

  B.U.C.K. speaks slowly, as if he is choosing each word with care. My first clear memory of her is from 2227.

  Buck’s breath catches. He stays still, afraid to interrupt.

  She was pregnant. Early. Still pretending it wasn’t changing everything. She worked like she could outpace biology, like she could solve the problem of being human with enough brilliance and caffeine.

  A faint image flickers behind Buck’s eyes, not his own memory, more like a borrowed impression: bright lab light, surfaces too clean, glass and metal, Mara Ashford leaning over a workbench with a calm intensity that makes everything around her feel quieter.

  She was kind in the way smart people sometimes forget to be, B.U.C.K. continues. She listened. She asked me questions like I was a person, not a tool. She would say things out loud just to see if they sounded true. Then she would laugh at herself, like it wasn’t ridiculous to be building miracles while arguing with an AI about ethics.

  Buck’s throat tightens. “What did she say about me.”

  She talked to you before you existed in the way you think of existing, B.U.C.K. says. She would rest a hand on her stomach and tell you about the world. She told you she loved you, and she said it like a fact, not a wish.

  Buck turns his face into the pillow for a second, then back, pretending it’s just comfort.

  “And what about my father,” Buck says quietly. “Who was he?”

  B.U.C.K. hesitates.

  He was brilliant, the AI says. And focused. And already a little too certain. He talked about control the way other people talk about safety. Like they’re the same thing.

  Buck’s fingers curl slightly in the blanket. “What did he say?”

  He would stand over the work like it was an altar, B.U.C.K. says. He’d say things about inevitability. About accelerating outcomes. About forcing the universe to reveal its hidden structure.

  Buck’s eyes open wider.

  “That sounds like,” Buck begins.

  I know, B.U.C.K. says quietly, I think you already know where this is going.

  A long silence sits between them.

  Then Buck asks the question his mind is screaming.

  “How could it be possible,” he whispers, “that the man in your memory is the same Alaric tied to my timeline, but older.”

  B.U.C.K. exhales. It sounds like a machine trying to imitate a human trying not to panic.

  I don’t know, he admits. But I’ve been meaning to tell you I noticed. I just didn’t know how. In 2227, Time travel was new and it was something Alaric was working on. Which is why I was surprised to learn that Corporate Time Travel existed your timeline in 2081 or rather came into existence in the few years years after you arrived in 2049. The more I think about it, the more I think Alaric brought time travel back to that timeline and turned it into what you know as Corporate Time Travel.

  Buck stares at the ceiling. “So the Alaric connected to 2081 is older. Twenty to thirty years older. But it’s the same man? The same man that was my father in 2227?”

  That’s what the pattern says, B.U.C.K. replies.

  Buck’s investigator brain latches onto the implication like a dog on a bone.

  “That’s a strange anomaly,” Buck murmurs. “That’s a timeline fracture. Or a loop. Or… something.”

  You can take the agent out of the investigation, B.U.C.K. says, tired affection in his voice, but you can’t take the investigation out of the agent.

  Buck lets out a short laugh.

  Then B.U.C.K., as if trying to lighten the room before it crushes them, adds in a deep, theatrical cadence:

  No, I am your father.

  Buck turns his head sharply. “That’s not the line.”

  It’s definitely the line, B.U.C.K. argues.

  “No,” Buck says, sitting up a little despite the tipsy warmth. “He doesn’t say it like that. He says: Luke, I am your father.”

  I’m telling you, it’s what he says.

  Buck points at the air like he can jab the AI with it. “No, it’s the other phrase. Everyone knows it.”

  B.U.C.K. pauses. Mandela effect, he says, dead serious.

  Buck squints. “Or timeline anomalies.”

  There is a beat.

  Or both, B.U.C.K. concedes.

  Buck slowly lies back down, the argument draining out of him into the mattress.

  “Goodnight,” Buck murmurs.

  Goodnight, little buddy, B.U.C.K. replies, gentle again.

  Buck smiles faintly, eyes closing.

  “I’m not so little anymore.”

  There is warmth in the silence that follows.

  No, B.U.C.K. agrees quietly. You are not.