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  “A soft 5:00 it is,” Nicholai replied, double-checking his reflection in the mirror before he crossed the distance to find Lilac in the kitchen. The man watched as she packed her things: water jugs and a microscopic sample of jam she made from a single blackberry plant in their impossibly small back yard. Gods, she was perfection. “I love you, Lilac.”

  The woman gazed up from her collection of containers. Her focus landed on Nicholai with the softness of silk. She tilted her head and smiled. “I love you too.”

  Her words were the gears to his inner clock. She wound him up every day with the sound of her voice, sustaining him through the hours until he returned to her at night. After their exchange of farewells, Nicholai slipped out the front door.

  Glancing down at the time displayed on the Chronometer around his neck, Nicholai cringed. He was cutting it close to his meeting with Nordjan. The elder was obsessed with efficiency. Thirty seconds too late would almost guarantee Nicholai an outlandish tirade about how Time Fathers were the least of all men who should be unpunctual.

  The rhythmic booms of busy cylinders and pistons greeted Nicholai as he walked deeper into the town. He straightened the collar of his off-white shirt and readjusted his hat, chastising himself for not setting his alarm to go off earlier. Nordjan would notice he took no steps to iron his clothing. Useless formalities to Nicholai were critical steps to the Northern Time Father. A small part of him felt guilty for neglecting his duties, but cutting the ‘little’ things from his daily routine gave him more time to focus on the important things ... and a Time Father’s days held plenty of those.

  Thick coatings of coal dust clung to the air. The wind blew microscopic specs of black debris onto his shirt, and while small, their presence looked obvious on the white rayon. It was a common visual irritant. Despite the vexation, Nicholai rarely adjusted his goggles over his eyes. The coal did not bother him much. It seemed more off-putting to wander down the sidewalk with goggles drawn over his face, though that was the norm of most inhabitants. The more affluent people, who could afford the hats with attached tubes that led to concealed oxygen tanks, looked even more ridiculous, he thought. Then there were those who could not afford the luxurious oxygen-tubed hats. They opted for a grotesque face mask to ward off the air pollution instead. Though their fashion choices came out of necessity, they still looked ludicrous.

  The hiss of steam sounded in the distance as Nicholai came to a halt at a cobblestone intersection. Though his destination lived only blocks away, it took time to get there. The man had to make frequent stops along the way to allow industry to flourish in the form of passing steam cars. They were in no short supply in Panagea. Ever a tool of efficiency, even the lower middle class stretched their budget if it meant they could incorporate one into their arsenal.

  After a sufficient amount of space cleared in the road, Nicholai crossed the street. He made his typical waves and acknowledgments to those who recognized him. He enjoyed the people of the Southeastern division, especially those in his home town of Nenada. They knew his routine and went out of their way to say hello.

  The monthly meetings with Nordjan had been carrying on for so long, the process of leaving his house and appearing at the café was a subconscious habit by now. Much like the machinery that surrounded him, he felt robotic in his current task. It made all the difference when the residents engaged him. It helped him feel human.

  “Damn it all!”

  Nicholai’s ears perked. A frustrated voice cut through the monotony of gyrating gears and unoiled wheels of passing cars. He narrowed his eyes, peering through the thickness of coal dust to see an elderly man struggling with the hand crank on his vehicle’s engine. They were difficult enough to use when manipulated by young bones—he couldn't imagine how hard it was to operate when the pains of old age set in.

  Nicholai pursed his lips. He already expected to hear an earful from Nordjan for the carelessness of his physical appearance. Stopping to assist this man would bring no more of a verbal onslaught than he already had coming.

  Cutting across the road, Nicholai approached the man. Upon closer inspection, he recognized him as Edwent, one of the region’s many mail couriers.

  “Can I lend a hand, Edwent?” Nicholai grinned, placing his hand on the crank before he received an answer. He knew Edwent to be a prideful man who would decline the offer of help if he gave him a chance. Seeing how erroneous cranking could cause a backfire capable of breaking a man’s arm, he did not wish to give him the opportunity.

  “Nicholai,” Edwent acknowledged him with a hoarse voice, wiping sweat from his brow. His irritation at having to rely on someone for help eased into a prominent look of relief. He slid his clammy palms on the legs of his pants while he watched the Time Father crank his vehicle. “Thank you, young man.”

  “My pleasure.” Nicholai patted him on the shoulder. To kill time as they waited for the car’s burner to achieve the proper temperature, Nicholai engaged the man in conversation. “Long route today?”

  Edwent shrugged and hoisted his body into the high seat of his automobile. “They all feel long when you get to be my age,” he muttered through a quiet chuckle.

  Nicholai grinned. “You don't look a day over thirty, my friend. I'm likely to be mistaken for your older brother if I linger here much longer.”

  Edwent’s small chuckle grew into a prominent laugh. “You’re either too kind, or you’re in dire need of some eyeglasses,” the courier replied, tapping the spectacles that sat on his bulbous nose. “I’ve seen thirty a lot in my lifetime, though the numbers mean less and less the older you get.”

  “Come now,” Nicholai raised his voice as the clamoring of Edwent’s combustion engine rattled from the car, “you're only as old as you feel.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Edwent snorted, waving Nicholai off with wrinkled hands. “Go on now, you have more important things to do than chat with an old man.”

  “And those letters won’t deliver themselves, I’m sure,” Nicholai smirked and took a step back, waving Edwent off as he disappeared down the street. With a quick turn of the heel, he started back toward the café.

  Two brass bells above the café door rattled as Nicholai pushed it open. He spotted Nordjan immediately, and the man appeared as irritated as he suspected.

  Though the Northern Time Father was almost twice Nicholai’s age, he had a powerful reverence about him as he sat, stooping over his beverage. “You’re—”

  “—late, I’m afraid so,” Nicholai interrupted, smearing coal dust and filth from Edwent's car onto his shirt as he wiped it to smooth any wrinkles. “My apologies, Nordjan.”

  The Northern Father scowled. He watched Nicholai slip into the chair across from him. “You’ve been Time Father of the Southeastern division for almost a decade now, Nicholai. You would think at some point you could conduct yourself with an air of professionalism.”

  Nicholai put on his best look of playful remorse and shrugged. “I don’t know what else to say, Nordjan. I’m sorry.”

  Disgust emanated from Nordjan’s eyes as they settled upon the insulting condition of Nicholai’s appearance. He released his grip from the copper mug he held and rubbed his temples with disdain. "The Western Father may be your flesh and blood, Nicholai, but his title does not guarantee your immunity. Your power here is in its infancy when compared to all the other ruling divisions."

  Nicholai held up his hands in defense. “I never asked Edvard for this position—”

  Nordjan pursed his lips together, his voice like venom as he narrowed his eyes. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have accepted his offer. It’s a great deal of responsibility being accountable for an entire region’s time. The stakes are higher now than they’ve ever been.”

  “Nordjan—” Nicholai stopped himself. He had a thousand and one sarcastic remarks stored away in the back of his mind, but he battled his instincts and pushed them to the side. Despite himself, he tried to be a better, more productive leader. It was difficult competing with the ex
perience of the other Time Fathers. He had a lot to prove, and while Southeastern boasted higher than normal morale, Nicholai often struggled to make the more difficult decisions required of his title. The man cleared his throat, trying to regain the air of diplomacy. “If the stakes are higher than they were previously,” he started, interlocking his fingers together before resting them on the table, “we should discuss our options.”

  “Agreed.” Nordjan straightened his posture. “More of Eastern’s coast has separated from the mainland and fallen into the sea.”

  Nicholai raised a brow. “Another? We already lost several acres last month.”

  “Precisely. The land is dying. Like diseased parasites falling from the flesh of a sick host. The more land we lose, the less remains for us. For industry. For progression.” Nordjan lifted his mug to his lips and took a small drink before setting it back down. “I've sanctioned land for more research facilities in Northern. Vadim commissioned more factories to be built in Northwestern to manufacture materials for the buildings we've lost to the sea. We'll make strides to combat these issues. In the meantime, your division is to build additional settling tanks. Water purification on a large scale is becoming more critical by the day.”

  “Sure,” Nicholai agreed, his previous disregard for the importance of Nordjan’s visit vanishing at the news. Panagea crumbled for some time now, but the rate at which large pieces withered, dried up, and detached from the mainland to disappear into the ocean ... it caused sleepless nights. Industry flourished, and families flourished with it. The higher the population climbed, the more land was needed for homesteads, but they competed with the need for more facilities, more factories, more purification plants.

  Acreage remained as important for the townsfolk as it did for the businesses. Nicholai knew if the two had to compete over shrinking land, it was the families who would suffer. The blue bloods of Panagea owned the companies that manufactured the food and the corporations that produced the pharmaceuticals; they always held the upper hand in the grand scheme of things. To the masses, business was vital. If it came down to a small family of four needing land for their residence, or a multi-million dollar corporation needing land for expansion, that family would be homeless.

  Nordjan seemed pleased by Nicholai’s devastated look. “I’m glad to see you’re taking this seriously,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice down. He did not wish to risk prying public ears absorbing his words and causing widespread panic.

  Nicholai blinked, bringing himself down from the height of his imagination, and back into the café with Nordjan. “Right,” he said, shaking his head. “But space is limited here as it is. I’d have to instruct established businesses to tear down shop to make space for building settling tanks.” The opinion was not a poplar one, but he'd sacrifice the companies before he tore down a home.

  “Then start with the most useless ones and go from there.” Nordjan slid his now empty cup to the center of the table. “I’d start with that ridiculous plant shop if I were you.”

  Nicholai felt his stomach sink. “With all due respect, Nordjan, a good handful of people here really appreciate Finn’s Greenhouse. The nursery is small, but—”

  “Pointless,” Nordjan interrupted. “A hobby like that does not feed and clothe the world. Peoples’ lives are at stake here.” He placed his palms on the table and leaned forward, his face inches away from his colleague. “You start making some hard decisions ... or by the next decennial gathering of the Time Fathers, we will find someone else who will.”

  Nicholai stared back at Nordjan, unflinching. He inclined his chin, grinding his teeth to save himself from saying something he'd regret. “Yes, sir.”

  Nordjan slid back and straightened himself. “Good man. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he pulled the silver pocket watch from beneath his pristine suit, “I only have six hours and thirty-seven minutes to return to the Northern Division before I must wind.”

  Nicholai said nothing. It wouldn’t have mattered if he did. The most critical part of a Time Father’s duties was to be within his realm to ‘wind the watch’, as they called it. The one, sole task that kept time in their assigned division moving forward. It was so heinous a crime for a Time Father to stop his realm’s time that he knew an uptight conformist like Nordjan would never miss the opportunity. Though he wished to debate further which businesses would have to be shut down, Nicholai did not wish to delay Nordjan’s return. Stopping time in one realm while others went on going damaged the world’s infrastructure. It was fragile enough as is.

  “Until next month,” Nordjan grumbled, tossing money on the table to cover the cost of his beverage. Before he left, he turned, lingering in the doorway. “We are the ones burdened from being in charge of time, Nicholai ... and we are running out of it. Do your part to ensure Panagea keeps ticking.”

  Nicholai watched in silence as Nordjan slipped out the door. He forgave the irritating play on words. The once jovial ringing of the bells seemed more ominous with Nordjan’s exit. He spied from the window as the Northern Father climbed into the personal flying machine he parked in a designated space outside. The ornithopter was a rather clumsy looking device by any standards and a wasteful way to travel. Still, it remained the only way to make a quick return to his wintery division in time.

  Nicholai sat back in his chair, defeated by their hurried conversation. How was he going to explain to Malcolm Finn why he had to destroy his storefront? Perhaps more pressing on his thoughts was how he would explain it to Lilac.

  A waitress saved him from dwelling on those concerns when she swooped over with a smile. “Can I get you anything, Nicholai?” she asked, pleasantness about her.

  The Southeastern Father put on his best face. It was a gift and a necessity to spare the locals from political anxieties. “Not today, Marta, but thank you.”

  Marta returned his kind smile with a nod, clearing Nordjan’s copper mug from the table. “Well, I’ll be at the front if you change your mind,” she offered. “I'm sorry, I would have come over to ask you sooner, but you know that man makes my skin crawl.”

  “Yes,” Nicholai agreed with her, sparing Marta any regret at having said an unflattering thing about the Northern Father. While it was expected the public treat the eight Fathers with respect, there was no love lost regarding the more abrasive superiors. “Let’s just say I wouldn’t hurry to invite him to any parties either,” Nicholai added with a gentle smile.

  Marta’s cheeks flushed red as she tried to contain her laughter. “Oh, you. Well, I’d better go make myself useful,” she said between tiny giggles.

  Nicholai watched as she scurried back to her duties. Without the waitress to distract him with chit-chat, he once again found himself in the unenviable spot he was before. Malcolm Finn’s entire life weaved through that greenhouse. He and his wife devoted their souls to the place. After Mrs. Finn’s passing, Malcolm's obsession with plant life only grew. Having grown up in that environment, Lilac inherited her parents’ love of nurturing the little seedlings. To sentence Malcolm to abandon his store ... Nicholai had no clue who would hate him more: Malcolm Finn or his daughter.

  The defeated man buried his face into his hands and let out an exasperated sigh. He sat there in silence until the sound of glass settling down on the table caused him to look up. Marta stood over him again with a soft smile. “Here you go, love. This one’s on the house. I’m not sure what you and that pompous lout talked about, but you look like you could use this.” She slid the offering toward him.

  Nicholai looked at the small shot glass and smirked. The distinctive smell of alcohol rose from the gift with potency. “You’re too kind, Marta, but I don’t drink.”

  The waitress stared him down, dissecting the truth in his words. “Forgive me for saying, but by the looks of you, sweetheart, maybe you should start.”

  She drew a laugh out of him though Nicholai regretted the obviousness of his anguish. In normal circumstances, he was good at concealing it, but the weight of Nordjan
’s news was heavier than usual. Not wanting to insult her generous offer, Nicholai picked the small glass up between his fingers and lifted it in a toast. “Cheers,” he said with a feigned appreciation before he tilted his head back and banished the drink down his throat.

  “There you are,” Marta smiled, taking the now empty glass from his hands. “Wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

  The man felt a fire rise from his guts. His eyes watered at the corners and he exhaled to do away with the taste. “Tell me, is it supposed to burn all the way down?” he uttered between pounding on his chest with a fist.

  “’Tis,” Marta answered, patting him on the back. “The more burn in your body, the less burn in your thoughts—that’s what I always say.”

  “Charming,” Nicholai coughed and laughed at the same time. “Thank you for your mercy drink, Marta, but I really should be off now.” He stood to his feet and reached into his pocket. “Are you sure I can’t pay you?”

  “I’d consider it a personal insult if you did,” Marta replied, wiping the table off with a damp rag after he stood. “See you next time, Nicholai.”

  The man nodded a formal goodbye to her and excused himself out the door. He stared at the hustle and bustle of the townspeople, naïve to the fact their world crumbled. Most would take the news of establishing more settling tanks well. When worded with the right finesse, it would appear to be a positive thing. More work for those who were jobless, more money flowing into the pockets of individuals that could disperse through businesses for goods and services, and more purified water for the people who otherwise had to ration it. Yes, painted in the right way, the public would rejoice. At least ... those who didn't have to shut their businesses down to make room.

  The burn of the alcohol had a lingering influence on Nicholai’s body. He rubbed his tongue along the roof of his mouth as if that would help. While his brain told him to move, to make haste with the preparations, his body remained paralyzed in its place. He wondered how long he could avoid telling Lilac. He wondered how long it would take to build the new tanks. Or how many more pieces of Panagea would decay and fall away from the continent. He wondered if another shot would make any of it better or worse. Making difficult decisions was never his forte. He fumbled his way through ruling an entire division for almost ten years, but the rapid decline of the world’s health was something he never expected. The Time Fathers always led him to believe everything was progressing as it should, with nothing more than minor bumps along the way.