Benji’s expression is quizzical. “Why would I want to be involved in this favor?”
“Because whatever you did to Francesca, this would make it up to her.”
Benji frowns. “What makes you think I owe her anything?”
“Because you’re me. So I know how much she means to you. Sooner or later you’ll want a chance to make things right.”
Benji snatches up his duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder. “Fine. Maybe I’ll be back. Eventually. You can explain your grand plan for my romantic rehabilitation then. Looks like you’ve got your own love life to figure out.” He nods toward Mym. “Good luck, Miss Quickly. He’s your problem now.”
“Hey, wait up a second,” I say.
“What now?”
“I need that jacket back.”
Benji looks down at the leather jacket and frowns. “You left it with the motorcycle. I figured you didn’t need it anymore. I really like it.”
“I know you do. I got it from you in the first place. That’s why you can’t have it.”
“What?”
“If you keep it, it will create an ontological paradox. If I got it from you and you got it from me then where would it have originally come from? It would be a closed loop. You have to get your own.”
“That sounds like a fancy bullshit way for you to justify keeping this jacket because it’s cool.”
“Can’t argue with time travel science, man.”
Benji reluctantly shrugs out of the jacket and gives it back. “Fine, I’ll get my own. But it’s still some sneaky bullshit.”
I just grin back at him.
With that, my other self brushes past me and disappears down the stairs.
Mym and I listen to his footsteps vanish in the distance and I hang the jacket back on the coat rack. I smile at Mym. “About time one of these paradoxes worked out in my favor.”
Mym smiles back and steps closer to lean against me. “Hard to believe you might have turned out like that.”
“Eh. It’s not all his fault.” I put my arm around her. “He never had you.”
I wake up in my own bed after perhaps the most restful sleep of my life. No nightmares. No Neverwhere. Just sleep, and Mym to wake up to. We do absolutely nothing all morning and it’s glorious. No one interrupts us. No unexpected visitors drop by with messages from the future. We manage to finish an entire movie in our pajamas and I can almost convince myself that I’m really home. I make Mym a leisurely lunch and, when we’re done eating, I’m finally ready to admit to being back. I call Blake.
He’s over within the hour. Mallory is working, but he doesn’t wait for her. I get a hug as soon as he walks in the door.
“If I’d have known today was your homecoming day, we could have been waiting with a surprise party,” Blake says. “Mallory is going to tell me I totally botched this.”
“I wouldn’t have wanted one. This was better. You’ll have to trust me.”
“Good to have you home, man. Oh, Mallory reminded me to give this to you.” Blake pulls a slightly rumpled envelope from his pocket and hands it to me. The paper is thick and formal. I slide a finger under the flap and tear it open.
“You got me a welcome home card?” I smile, then pull the thick piece of paper out of the envelope. It takes me a moment to process the text written across it in elaborate calligraphy. The honor of your presence is requested at the wedding of Miss Mallory Watson and . . .”
“Dude! Your wedding?” I fumble at the card. “That’s super exciting!” I feel my grin fade when I read the date. “Oh shit. This was four years ago.” I look up and for the first time notice the ring on Blake’s finger. “Oh God, I’m so sorry, man. I’m such a jerk. I totally missed it.”
“The hell you did. Your speech was the highlight of the reception.” Blake is smiling. “Not that I should be swelling your head. It’s got to be big enough what with saving the world for . . . how many times are you up to now?”
“Speech? You mean I get to be best man? You do mean me, right? Not . . .”
“The D.O.B. got to sit that event out,” Blake replies.
“That’s so cool. Thank you. You didn’t happen to save a copy of that speech did you? Might save me a lot of writing.” I grin. Blake pretends to be offended. “I’m just kidding,” I add. “I have plenty of ammo— I mean, stories, to tell people about you.”
Blake laughs. It’s a wonderful sound.
Mym joins us and I show her the invitation. “So I guess I haven’t totally missed the last five years after all.”
“We’ve gotten used to you two bouncing around,” Blake replies. “We stopped trying to welcome you home after the first few visits. We knew the real day you got back was going to happen, but you never told us when. Why’d you pick 2014?”
I take Mym’s hand. “Long story, but I finally decided to get with the times.” I smile at the sight of my friend looking so happy. “So we’ve been back before, huh? What about Carson, have you heard from him?”
“He didn’t tell you? He’s got a job in the future. He’s working with a couple of bounty hunters. Doctor Quickly hired them to go hunt down some of his missing chronometers. Carson jumped at the chance.”
“Carson works with Eon and Rixon?”
“Apparently their first assignment is going after the alternate version of Elton Stenger. The one that killed Carson and stole his chronometer in the ’80s. Then I heard they’re going to track down Guy and Lawrence Friday. Kind of wish I could be there to see that.”
“Wow,” I manage. “Don’t envy those guys what’s coming. Good for Carson. He did always want to settle that score.”
“So what about you two?” Blake says. “Is this it? No more kinks in the timeline to set straight? You finally get your life back?”
I smile at Mym. “Actually, I decided the most essential part of my life wasn’t really about the when so much as the who. We’re just going to take our time and see where we end up.”
Mym squeezes my hand.
I turn back to Blake. “Speaking of which. I do have one more thing I need to do before this is really over. I owe someone an important visit. You mind if I borrow your chronometer?”
25
"To suggest that time travelers never die is erroneous. We meet our ends often and sometimes painfully. But a life lived well can never be undone. In that way we are all immortal.” -Journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 1996
St. Petersburg, 1986.
It’s a long walk down the St. Petersburg pier in 1986. The colorful inverted pyramid at the end is still young, only a decade older than its architectural heyday in the ’70s, but already out of its element. Thanks to my recent travels, I know it’ll stand guard on the city’s eastern shoreline for a few more decades until 2015, when progress will finally come calling.
Today, the pelicans and seagulls bombard the fishermen and dry themselves in the sun, oblivious to the impending demands of the future. There are no wrecking balls on the horizon, no grand plans for the next great thing that might upset their preening. This one sunny day has room enough for all of their aspirations.
On the far side of the pier, along a concrete wall studded with boat cleats, a petite, young blonde woman is seated cross-legged staring across the water at the distant shoreline.
I hesitate.
This Mym has had her world torn apart by a crazy man from my time and has ignored her father’s mandate to let him go. She’s tried to save him and failed, only making the situation worse. This Mym has just lost her dad for the most recent time, but despite the pain, she’s not crying. She’s simply staring. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I know what I have to do.
Moving slowly, I wait for a pair of elderly tourists to pass on their bicycles before taking a seat next to her on the wall. She notices and watches me get settled. Her blue eyes seem to soak me in, studying my face and clothes, as if she can read all she needs to without even speaking. She turns back to the horizon and lets her hands rest on the edge of the
wall. “It’s been a long time.”
For her it has been.
Years.
A night of conversation under the stars. A hot air balloon journey. Fleeting moments full of promise, but no resolution. The only time she’d seen me before that was decades into her past. A little girl exploring a jungle—helping me find the things I’d lost. For me those memories are only a sliver of what we’ve shared together—mere opening chapters. I’ve seen so much more with her since. For this Mym, all of our recent adventures are a story yet to be lived.
I want to take her into my arms and kiss her, but I hold myself back. That’s not what she needs right now.
“It’s going to be okay. He’s going to live.”
She turns and searches my face. “You found it? You know the way to save him?”
“We’ll save him together. We already have.”
Mym’s shoulders slowly relax as the strain of her failed attempts to rescue her father is lifted away. She tilts her face up toward the sun and closes her eyes. “Thank God.”
I let her stay like that, eyes closed in the quiet, until I can’t take it anymore. I slide my hand across the concrete so my fingers brush hers.
She doesn’t pull her hand away. She lets me link my fingers over top of hers before she finally looks down. The worry in her expression has been replaced with something new. Something hopeful.
“So Dad is happy? He’s okay?”
“He’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him. Better than okay.”
She searches for the truth in my eyes, testing the validity of what I’ve told her. Whatever she sees must convince her because she exhales her acceptance. “Okay.”
I stare at Mym, wishing more than anything that I can tell her what she means to me, what we’ll be together. We have a history, but this Mym still has a long way to go till then.
She seems to sense it anyway.
“Is this going to be something . . .”
“Significant?” I grin.
The corner of her mouth creeps upward and her eyes brighten. “What? What is it?”
“Nothing. It’s just that the next time you see me, it’ll be the first time I ever meet you. I’m going to make a total mess of it.” I grip her hand a little tighter. “So maybe you can do me a favor and remember me like this instead.”
“You want credit for the way you are now so I’ll think better of your earlier self when I meet him?” Mym smiles. “I don’t know if I can just let you off that easily.”
I’m elated to see her smiling.
“I’m just trying to give my earlier self whatever chance for success he can get. He still has a lot to learn.”
Mym smirks and lifts our entwined hands. “You must think you’re pretty smooth this time then. Is this your best move? What if I’m not impressed yet?”
I laugh. “I guess that makes things even worse for my poor earlier self. Maybe I’m messing up his chances after all.”
Mym stares off into the distance for a few moments, then releases my hand and pivots to face me. “Okay, since this is obviously so important to you, I’ll give you another chance.” She contorts her face into an expression of seriousness again. “We’ll say we’ve never met. This is it. You get one shot to wow me.”
“Wow you?”
“Well, yeah. If our entire future hinges on this meeting like you say it does, you’d better convince me to listen to you. If I’m just supposed to take your word for it, then you’d better show me why you’re so great.”
“Ha. So no pressure at all.”
“You’re the one who wanted this.” She folds her hands in her lap. “Your best line better be pretty good.”
I swing my legs up and straddle the wall, then slide toward her so our knees are touching as we face each other. Mym’s eyes are sparkling now, her recent pain receding under this new barrage of hope. A barely suppressed smile plays on her lips.
I wrack my brain for something to say that could wow this impossible girl. I might have seen the end of the world and come back from beyond the grave, but her smiling eyes can still level me.
She tilts her head. “You’ve gotten awfully close, man I’ve never met. You’d better explain yourself.”
I meet her gaze and hold my hand out. “Hello, Mym. I’m here to tell you about your future.”
She regards my hand skeptically. “My future? I don’t know . . . That just sounds crazy.” She shakes her head and smirks at me. “Let me guess. You’re in it?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Has this line ever actually worked on anyone? What kind of gullible girls have you been—”
“Oh, forget this,” I say. I reach out with both hands and pull her to me, one hand on her back, the other in her hair. I press my mouth to hers and breathe her in. Salt breeze and orange blossoms. Her right hand finds my face and the other clenches the front of my T-shirt. We pull each other tighter, each touch of our lips a fresh connection, a million unspoken hopes passing between them.
Finally we release one another. Our fingers trail down each other’s bodies and link together in her lap. I keep my forehead pressed against Mym’s.
“Okay. That’s the best I’ve got. Maybe I’ll never be smooth, but I promise I’ll be all yours.”
“Okay,” Mym whispers. She brushes her fingertips over the chronometer on my wrist. They trace the outline of the ring of years. “I think that’s a future worth waiting for.”
I kiss her again, and when she finally pulls away, she’s staring into my eyes. “You come walking out of nowhere. You tell me my future is all going to work out. You kiss me like you know all about me. Like we’re going to be . . . Who are you, really?”
It’s a complicated question with an even more complicated story for an answer. But it’s one I know she’ll want to experience all in her own time. So I just look her in the eyes and smile.
“I’m Ben Travers.
“I’m a time traveler.”
The Warp Clock
1
“It’s a pity that with all of time and space to be explored, we have such a brief opportunity to enjoy it. But I’d rather have a fleeting life filled with wonder than an unremarkable eternity.” -Journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 2018
They say time travelers never die.
They’re wrong.
I suppose there’s an argument to be made that as long as one time traveler still exists in the universe, none of us are ever really gone. From that traveler’s perspective, our lives are immortal strands in the fabric of history, waiting to be revisited.
Or maybe that’s just what I think about during funerals to make myself feel better.
At least I’m not the one in the casket today.
Around the room people are wiping away tears and speaking in hushed tones, but I don’t recognize most of them. If they were really so close to him, would they be acting this sad? They have to know there are other versions of the man still out there in the multiverse, alive and smiling.
Maybe he just won’t return their calls. It’s hard to mourn for a guy when I have plans to meet him for dinner.
Tall windows stream sunlight from overhead. This venue is very him, not just architecturally, but quite literally, since they’ve named the building after him.
The Dr. Harold Quickly Center for Temporal Sciences.
The gathering hall is crowded. If you’re going to have a funeral service for a time travel scientist, I suppose it’s only right to invite his friends and family, but it must be hard to plan a guest list when they are showing up from a dozen different timestreams. The servers at the hors d’oeuvres table in the back look overwhelmed.
Mym is somewhere around here. Several of her, actually. As I scan the room I spot multiple versions of her curled blonde hair and smiling eyes. Each one of her is chatting with different attendees that have come to pay their respects.
Must keep track of which one is my wife . . .
I fidget with the ring on my finger. Still feels a bit new thinking of her
that way, even though it’s been a while now. Mym has an app running on her phone that knows the real time we’ve been married, otherwise I’d never be able to keep track. With all the jumps we’ve made since that day I couldn’t even guess. But I remember our wedding ceremony like it was yesterday. I’ve been back twice to visit. I could recite our vows by heart if I needed to. Maybe that will buy me some forgiveness if I lose track of an anniversary.
The line at the front of the hall has finally diminished to fewer than a dozen people so I move toward the casket and wait my turn.
They’ve done a nice job with the holo-projections. The image of Dr. Quickly smiling serenely near the front of the room looks nearly lifelike. I suspect ASCOTT put a lot of money into the presentation. The Allied Scientific Coalition of Time Travelers donated the building and made a big fuss about hosting the official funeral. After the service, the casket is getting buried in the Dr. Quickly Memorial Rose Garden. I catch sight of the new director of ASCOTT, Jermaine Clevis, looking smug as he greets guests. He must feel that hosting the funeral of the most accomplished scientist in the history of time travel will be good for his reputation. He might feel less inclined to believe that if he knew we stuffed the casket full of sandbags.
When it’s finally my turn to pay my respects, I run my hand over the casket. The glossy mahogany has some sort of smudge-repelling varnish. I absentmindedly trace the words “Hi Doc” on the finish. Moments after I pull my hand away, my fingerprints disappear. It’s a cool feature but it’s overkill. Not like he’ll see them anyway.
I slip my hands back into my pockets and check out the simple photograph perched on a stand next to the casket. Mym brought it along to contribute. The man who has taught me everything I know about time is smiling back at me in black and white. The 8x10 photo shows Harry just a bit older than when I first met him, a gray-haired senior citizen with cheerful eyes and a Florida suntan. Despite the building bearing his name, I know all this formality was never his style. The man in the photo wouldn’t be caught dead in this place.
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 162