Hallow

by Renato Carreira

  *

  The old-timer was sitting on the bench with his legs on top of it, looking somewhat green. He had been sick again on their way to the park and, hopefully, the large trash can right next to the bench could be used in an emergency.

  "Are you okay?" Margrit asked.

  He looked at her and frowned like it took an effort to remember her face and the reason for her presence.

  "I need my marker," he said.

  "I'll give to you when you're feeling better," Margrit said. "What's wrong?"

  "The food they gave me in there." Mentioning it made him look greener and, for a moment, Margrit feared he wouldn't have time to turn his face to the trash can. She was standing right in front of him. But he managed to hold it in. "I told them mankind lost the ability to digest chlorophyll with the passing of the centuries, but they wouldn't listen and kept feeding me blasted leaves! Primitive fools!" He raised his voice and tried to get up, but the effort was too much and he gave up. "You know how it is..."

  "I don't," said Margrit. "Back in my time, we got over that problem. There's shots you can take for everything."

  "Really?" he asked, with eyes wide open.

  She nodded.

  "Have you come to take me home?" he asked.

  "No," she said, hoping it wouldn't be necessary to say anything else.

  For a moment, the old man seemed on the verge of tears.

  "Why not?" he asked.

  "You know," she said. "You signed a contract. Things were explained to you before you travelled."

  He closed his eyes briefly and looked like he was trying to restrain himself.

  "They said it was only a matter of time before someone would invent something that allowed us to be brought back," the old-timer said. "Many of us believed that. All of us."

  "And it is," said Margrit. "But it still hasn't happened."

  "So you can't go back also?"

  "I can," she said, doing her best not to feel sorry for the old-timer. "But in your days, they sent you using a system that's not compatible with what they use today."

  "Is someone working on it?" he asked, hopefully.

  "Yes," Margrit lied. "I think they are. It shouldn't take long."

  "I hope not," said the old man. "I've been stuck here for... I don't even remember anymore. Forty years? Fifty?"

  Margrit loved the thrill of being a timenaut, but, if it required never coming back to her own time, she would never do it.

  "Closer to sixty," she said. The old-timer went pale and said nothing. "What's your name?"

  "You don't know?"

  "There was a malfunction in the mission registry," Margrit explained. "The sector containing timenauts' identities fried over thirty years ago."

  "Albert," said the old-timer. "My name is Albert Ford."

  "Well, Albert, you know why they sent me after you," said Margrit.

  "I do," said Albert. "Are you sure there isn't a way of taking me back?" he asked.

  "Look, I've already—" she began.

  "I know," he cut in. "I signed a contract. But there must be a way. The Archbishop could say a word on my behalf. I was one of his favorites."

  Pioneer or not, he was being so pathetic that it was painful to watch.

  "Do you really think it would make any difference?" she asked.

  The question seemed to trouble him, but it was clear he couldn't say why.

  "What do you mean?" he asked her back.

  "It's been sixty years since you were sent here," she said. "Even if the Archbishop could help you, and he can't. Do you see where I'm going with this? It's also in the contract that sharing information about future events is strictly forbidden, but you can guess on your own what happened to the Archbishop you were friends with, can't you?"

  It seemed to dawn on him only then.

  "Oh..." he said.

  "Come on, then", she continued. "I've come a long way to talk to you. Why don't you share your findings with me? Is it true what you mentioned in your drops?"

  "My drops..." He still seemed a bit taken back by what she had said to him. "Yes, of course. Without any shadow of a doubt."

  "The drop mentioned 92% certainty," she reminded him.

  "Okay. Almost without any shadow of a doubt," he corrected.

  "How can you be so certain?"

  "I got a location estimate and went there immediately. But it wasn't accurate and I... well... I admit I got a little carried away and may have started to question local-timers a bit too loudly."

  "May have?" Margrit asked.

  "I did question them too loudly. I've been looking for too long. The police came and took me away. As I was sitting in the station, my marker started buzzing wildly," he said. Mentioning it made him remember. "Where is it?"

  Margrit was still holding the plastic bag. She lifted it slightly.

  "Right here," she said.

  "Give it to me."

  "In a moment. The marker started buzzing. Then what?"

  "I checked it while he was walking towards me. And the result was clear. 92%."

  "That's probably a mistake," she said.

  The old-timer seemed to take offense.

  "A timenaut that doesn't trust his marker is no timenaut at all!" he said, raising his voice.

  "I trust my marker," Margrit said. "But I don't trust yours. It's old and went too long without tuning. The reading was probably wrong."

  "If it hadn't gone so long without tuning, I'm sure the reading would be 100%."

  "You can't be sure of that."

  "We know the event is near!"

  "We don't even know if the event actually happened."

  He opened his eyes wider when he spoke again.

  "Where is your faith, agent?" he asked.

  "Don't need it," Margrit replied. "Faith is for clergymen."

  The old-man looked disgusted by her reply.

  "Things can't have changed that much in sixty years," he said.

  "They have," Margrit assured him. "One of your drops mentioned a contact being initiated. What was that about?"

  "I thought the circumstances demanded that—"

  "You thought? Our mission is to locate the target. Establishing contact is a chaplain's job."

  "I..." He nodded. "You're right, of course. It's been so long that sometimes you start to wonder if it's all in your mind. All those drops and never a reply."

  "I'm here. I'm your reply," she said. "It's not all in your mind."

  "That's good to know." The old man lowered his feet to the ground and bowed his head. "Can I have my marker back?" he asked.

  Margrit gave him the plastic bag.

  "Please refrain from further attempts to contact the target," she said.

  He nodded.

  "What now?" asked the old-timer.

  "Albert Ford," Margrit cleared her throat and recited the words she had memorized. "The Church thanks you for your service. Carry on with your duties."

  "Are you going back now? He asked.

  "No, not yet. There are things I must do before going back."

  "Take me with you," he begged, looking up at her face.

  "I have already told you current technology still doesn't—"

  "Not back," he said. "Take me with you to do what must be done. I can help. I have experience and—"

  "No."

  "Please."

  "No."

  He lowered his head again and Margrit thought he was about to start crying. She didn't need to see that. But she was wrong. His laughter surprised her. He looked at her again, acting like he had just thought of the funniest thing in the world.

  "You can't outsmart me, girl," he said. "Too old for that. I got you!"

  She didn't understand what he was talking about. And she told him so.

  "I don't understand what you're talking about."

  "How about this?" he said. "You take me along and I'll share my readings with you. Decades of tracking data that will make locating the target a lot simpler. You shouldn't hav
e given me the marker back. A beginner's mistake. Easily forgivable."

  Pathetic. Truly pathetic.

  "I already downloaded your data while you were busy vomiting," she said.

  The corners of his mouth slowly drifted downwards and his eyes became moist.

  "No..." he said.

  "Sorry," said Margrit.

  He buried his face in his hands and started to sob. Margrit had no intention of enduring that sad spectacle. He was sobbing harder when she walked away.