Timeshares

by Jean Rabe

  The four woke to the soft rhythmic thumps of generous raindrops and raucous screeches of birds mingled with the chatters of monkey conversation. A chorus of frogs joined in.

  Peter noticed their hut mates communicated through a series of nods and smiles, as though connected in a way that made speech unnecessary.

  “I’m Peter and this is Evelyn.” Peter spoke slowly and deliberately, taking turns pointing to himself and his wife. He tried to coax names from the other couple, who gave him curious looks before he realized if they were the only two humans in this place, names were not needed. However, they appeared interested when Peter spoke and were eager to learn this form of communication.

  Under Peter’s tutelage, they mastered words and phrases at such a rapid rate that scarcely a week had passed when they were nearly as fluent as Peter and Evelyn.

  The pair reciprocated and introduced the new arrivals to the benefits of warm mineral pools, showers under cascading waterfalls, and taught them where to find food and springs of pure, delicious water.

  It was paradise, Evelyn thought. Almost.

  Several days later Peter and Evelyn followed their hosts to the entrance of a beautiful sanctuary in the middle of the garden. A stream of scintillating pale blue light surrounded a magnificent ancient tree.

  “Forbidden,” the man said. “This place is . . .” He searched for one of the words Peter had taught him. “Hallowed.” He explained that the fruit was off limits, too, even though it dangled seductively from every branch of a particularly beguiling tree. “The knowledge of the universe is in the branches. Forbidden.”

  Evelyn got the gist that to enter this sacred space and pluck from the tree would surely unleash dreadful retribution.

  Time played out differently here as it seemed to flow in circles instead of the measured march toward a plotted destination. Every new day brought incredible things to discover within the overwhelming beauty of this enchanted region. There was an abundance of serene wild-life, and the creatures showed no fear of humans.

  The absence of mosquitoes, biting flies, and other airborne annoyances that plagued them back home convinced Peter to cast his towel aside and embrace the nudist lifestyle. Peter noticed a renewed surge of vigor and stamina he’d not known since his carefree days of childhood, and his hair had grown thick and dark.

  While he was having the time of his life, Evelyn sank into despair. She wondered if Peter would choose to stay behind should rescue come. Surely someone from the travel agency would come looking for them.

  Paradise? Almost, but not quite. She craved her pomegranate martini lunches with friends, neighborhood gossip, morning beach runs, tennis, and clothes. She’d give anything to trade in her tattered towel for a sporty tennis outfit, and she longed for the companionship of her well-connected friends. Marnie, her friend and doubles partner, must be wondering why she’d been absent from their tennis tournament. Surely Marnie would launch an investigation to find her.

  The police will be alerted, Evelyn thought.

  Her mood lightened as she realized the authorities would certainly question neighbors, Peter’s coworkers, club members, and anyone who knew them. They were bound to discover a large sum of money Peter had paid to Timeshares Travel Agency, the last people to have contact with Peter before he disappeared. The travel agency must have a way to retrieve those trapped in another time without a transporting device.

  After all, they were liable for this epic screwup, and their business was bound to suffer if they “lost” customers.

  While Evelyn contemplated her plight, she heard the soft throaty call of an exquisite heron that was wading in the reeds in search of a mate. Iridescent dragonflies skimmed the surface of the clear water where Evelyn knelt for a drink. Absorbed in self pity, she splashed water on her tear-stained face and was astonished by her young reflection.

  The crow’s feet and creases had vanished, and her short spiky gray hair was the color of glowing copper. She felt her lithe, thin body burst with the energy of a teenager. The road map of blue spider veins on her thighs had vanished. She peered once more into the water, not believing her eyes.

  Maybe it wasn’t too late to save their marriage! Surely Peter had noticed her transformation.

  What Peter had noticed was the other female.

  Pain seared Evelyn’s heart as she observed him stealing glances at the beautiful young woman who was unaware of being watched.

  Peter no longer seemed interested in returning home. In fact, he had grown accustomed to the quiet splendor of this sequestered place.

  Early one morning while sitting under a coconut palm, Evelyn decided that when rescuers came, she would leave him here. This would save her the cost and humiliation of a sensational divorce. She’d simply tell friends that Peter was working overseas for an extended period, which could buy her time to plan a plausible story for his disappearance.

  As the tension mounted between her and Peter, Evelyn noticed that the other woman was growing quite irritable toward her man. Busy brooding about the state of her life, Evelyn failed to notice the kind, handsome, seemingly flawless man who stole glimpses of her whenever possible.

  While Evelyn gathered figs and mushrooms one day in a shady glen, she discovered Peter and the other woman; a crystal pond reflected them hand- in-hand and deep in whispered conversation. Evelyn crept closer to hear her husband regaling his enthusiastic subject with tales of Chicago and all its wonders.

  You’d think he was the most powerful man in the world the way he’s going on, thought his furious wife. It sickened Evelyn to see the simpering female hang on every word uttered by that philandering old goat.

  Her stomach churned as she listened to Peter. He promised his new trophy it would be no time at all before he had them back in Lake Forest. His new woman sat spellbound by the incredible places he described—theaters, restaurants, yachts, as well as maids and room service. Their new life together would be completed by a couple of children to fill the immense lakeshore home.

  Evelyn’s fingers closed around a rock. One swift blow to the temple ought to do it, she thought. One blow, and . . . wait. If Peter is talking about Chicago, he must have found a way to get back home. And it was evident he planned to take his new conquest back with him while he left his wife behind.

  Evelyn had planned to leave Peter here when the Timeshares folks finally showed up. Now it seemed Peter had a similar idea.

  Evelyn’s mind spun. If she wanted to be rescued she would have to stalk the two from the shadows to stay close. If the other woman returned with them, so be it. Out with the old and in with the new, huh? Let her spend a Chicago winter in that outfit, Evelyn mused.

  She quietly pursued them, creeping along at a generous distance until night fell. It seemed like hours before the two stopped to curl into each other’s arms under the protection of a sprawling tree.

  Bone tired, Evelyn crouched behind a nearby thicket, worried that Peter suspected he was being trailed. He had periodically stopped suddenly to look behind him. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream as the smooth scales of something long slithered across her bare ankle. A snake? She looked, but couldn’t see it. Eventually, the distant rhythm of her husband’s measured snores lulled her to sleep.

  Evelyn woke, encapsulated in the gray mist that hung heavy as damp gauze. To her horror, Peter had vanished—along with his prize. She frantically retraced her steps to the crystal pool, terrified they would leave without her.

  The earth quaked beneath her feet and thunder boomed, nearly felling her. Was the nearby mountain about to explode? The morning sky darkened and a deathly silence closed around her. Birdsong, animal chatter, croaks—all the natural sounds she’d grown used to hearing were replaced by an ominous, eerie stillness. She shuddered as a chill wove its way up her spine.

  Suddenly Evelyn knew where her husband had gone.

  She raced toward the middle of the garden, practically running into the abandoned man who pounded up beside her. They halte
d before a barrier of thick blue flames that surrounded the forbidden tree. Evelyn could barely see Peter and his new woman through the blue light.

  Shards of white-hot lightening burst from the sky while Peter and his woman shook behind two leaves the size of elephant ears. A golden piece of fruit lay at their feet, bearing two sets of bite marks. A heartbeat later, the couple vanished.

  The flames disappeared, and in their place stood a radiant angel brandishing a flaming sword.

  “The violators have been banished from paradise!” the angel announced. Then he, too, was gone.

  Evelyn felt a soft touch on her bare shoulder.

  She turned to meet the kind sapphire eyes of the man left behind. Held by his magnificent gaze, she felt their unexpected connection and instantly realized everything that had been missing from her life.

  Evelyn no longer yearned for status that came from club presidencies and committee memberships, vacations to Monaco or cruises on expensive yachts.

  In that moment she glimpsed her future with him and quickly bid farewell to her former life—along with her towel.

  Tenderly, hand- in-hand, they made their way back to his hut.

  After a delicious breakfast of fresh papaya and fish grilled over coconut shells, Evelyn studied the place and pondered how best to remodel it while her new mate sought a way to permanently rid paradise of that damn snake.

  The World of Null-T

  Gene DeWeese

  Author of forty science fiction, mystery, and fantasy novels, Gene DeWeese was, once upon a time, a technical writer who wrote manuals for B-52 navigation systems and “intuitive” programmed instruction texts on orbital mechanics for NASA’s Apollo program. He’s lived in Milwaukee the past forty-seven years with his multitasking wife Beverly and assorted single-minded cats. His most recent books are a Star Trek novel, Engines of Destiny, and a small-town-sheriff mystery, Murder in the Blood.

  The memory is not the event—not even close!

  Function without appropriate form is inefficient, but form without appropriate function is not only useless but an insult to the customer.

  —Anonymous know-it-all

  In the Timeshares Era, there’s no such thing as a middle ground position when it comes to being a ChronoCop. It’s either the most important or the most useless job on Earth. Any ChronoCop will tell you we’re unsung heroes whose battered fingers are figuratively plugging endless holes in the leaky dykes of Time. The ChronoCorps, they say, is all that stands between Earth and a ChronoTsunami. Just don’t press us too hard for precise definitions of terms, which are slippery at best even when Time is a constant, let alone the variable to end all variables.

  On the other hand, if you ask one of the Timeshares people (we’re assuming they’re people) you’ll be told with a wink or a sneer that the ChronoCorps is nothing but a collection of feather-bedding Chicken Littles no better than those despicable but imaginative twentieth-century scammers who managed to sell “gravity insurance” to some gullible flat-earthers (is there any other kind?) when the early artificial satellite photos began suggesting, even to them, that the world just might really be round after all.

  As for what we ChronoCops thought of the Timeshares people, suffice it to say that the recruiting requirements include a firm belief in Murphy’s Law, which means whenever anyone tells us “nothing can possibly go wrong,” we assume they’re either lying or are so arrogantly overconfident they shouldn’t be trusted with sharp objects, let alone the ability to time- hop pretty much at will.

  And then there’s the Matiolin Society.

  Maybe.

  No one knows what to think of them. For all the hard evidence we have (zero), we can’t even prove they exist, and the “name” is nothing more than what our computers tell us are the most-often-produced set of sounds in the one and only static- filled “message” they sent. No one’s ever even seen a society member, only their building, which “appeared” not long after—or maybe just before—the Timeshares people’s flickering convoy parked in a twenty-four-hour orbit and began beaming down everything we’d need to get started in the time-travel business. A sort of time-travel kit, some assembly required.

  Anyway, somewhere in there, the Matiolin Society building appeared, not in orbit but hovering a few feet off the ground right next to the ChronoCorps HQ.

  And that was it. They/It didn’t offer an opinion either way on ChronoCops. Or the Timeshares people. It just hovered, looking sort of like a gigantic misplaced crystalline Christmas tree ornament, and waited.

  Or watched. Or reviewed their notes from their last stop.

  Or took long naps. Like I said, nobody had a clue.

  Those of us in the ChronoCorps hoped there was some significance to the fact that the Matiolins had parked next to our HQ, not the other guys’. We could only hope it was for the right reason—they’d be close enough to help or save us if/when the Murphy’s Law poster boys did something both stupid and dangerous. And believe me, under the Timeshares “rules” that were included in every kit they shipped down, there was room for way more than enough trouble to go around.

  See, the official and happy-making line touted by the Timeshares people goes like this: Time is the ultimate elastic, and nothing a traveler can do will keep the timeline—the real, core timeline—from being dragged, perhaps with a little figurative kicking and screaming, back to where it belongs before any “real” damage can be done. Therefore, say the experts in charge of soothing analogies, you don’t have to worry about the infamous butterfly that flaps its dusty wings in China and causes a hurricane somewhere around Cuba, half a world and a couple centuries away. What you have instead is more like an elephant jumping on an industrial strength trampoline in your backyard. He bounces a few times, maybe rattles a couple teacups in the upper reaches of your china cabinet before getting bored and wandering off, leaving Time to heal itself, which it does by repositioning the rattled teacups a millimeter or so from their original place, which takes it a couple microseconds and is never even noticed.

  But, say the few remaining scientists not on the Timeshares payroll, if the changes are large enough and complicated enough, then all bets are off.

  Anything can happen.

  Like Time Knots.

  “Anecdotal and unproven,” say the Timeshares people. “They’re the Timeshares Era equivalent of UFOs, and you know how real they turned out to be.”

  “Anecdotal but inevitable,” say the ChronoCorps theorists. With the Timeshares people’s No- Fault-No-Limits approach to time travel, you don’t need Murphy’s Law to know there are going to be tangles in the timelines, and some will get so bad they can’t be untangled.

  Which is usually when one side or the other will cite the so-called Hitler episode, when everybody and his third cousin twice removed suddenly decided it would be a great idea to go back and kill Hitler, only to discover that a similar number of skinheads were already back there providing him with a lifetime supply of disposable bodyguards. In the resulting tornado of successful, unsuccessful, and semi- successful assassinations, every assassin and every bodyguard was killed at least once, Hitler hundreds of times, along with a bunch of innocent bystanders. Each incident, no matter the outcome, generated its own little time thread that added to the tangle.

  All of which turned out to be a remarkable piece of good luck according to the pseudomemories that soon began surfacing in the minds of the not-quite assassins—the ones who had changed their minds at the last minute and decided to stay home. Each time Hitler was successfully disposed of, these pseudomemories said, he was invariably replaced by a more pragmatic, less wacked out version who got rid of Von Braun and redirected the scientist’s rocket money to the Luftwaffe, which prolonged the war by several years and left the postwar U.S. Von Braunless and without a space program. The pseudomemories themselves continued to surface, albeit with rapidly decreasing intensity, until it seemed that everyone who had so much as dreamed about participating in the assassination had their own littl
e packet of pseudomemories that quickly and seamlessly merged with their “real” memories until the two were virtually indistinguishable.

  The Timeshares people and ChronoCops of course put their own separate spins on the incident. We kill-joy ChronoCops insisted that the important lesson to be learned was that Time Knots were not only real but would, if limits weren’t imposed, become both frequent and inevitable. Some of our theorists even went so far as to say that if a knot grew big enough, it could reach some sort of critical mass, at which point it would start expanding on its own, like a nuclear chain reaction. It could, they warned, become unstoppable and, for want of a better term, freeze time itself into one huge, universe-size Time Knot.

  The Timeshares people, on the other hand, only scoffed at this “unfounded Chicken Little thinking” and reminded everyone that while the United States had been developing the first atomic bomb, one of the program’s Nervous Nelly scientists had gone completely off the rails and ran around warning that the bomb might trigger a chain reaction in the atmosphere and wipe out life on Earth. Luckily no one had paid him any attention, and the Timeshares people, never inclined to pass up an opportunity, soon began claiming loudly that the whole Hitler episode was, in fact, incontrovertible proof of what they’d been saying all along: Time could and did repair itself spontaneously no matter how much travelers changed things.

  The pseudomemories, they cheerfully explained/improvised, were in fact real memories of what had happened in the depths of the time knot, and they were now being released as the so- called Time Knot itself unraveled (decayed?) and vanished, leaving the timeline unchanged except for the presence of a bunch of memories of things that hadn’t really happened and therefore weren’t even relevant to the real world.

  You shouldn’t have any trouble guessing which side won the propaganda war. Suffice it to say that within a few weeks, historical event markers everywhere began being papered over with suggestions as to how your average ChronoTourist could change the outcomes of those events. Ever wonder what kind of president Custer would’ve made? Head for Little Big Horn and give him a little extra firepower and find out. Or if you wondered how many terms FDR might’ve had if he’d been Time-napped from, say, January 1945 and taken to a twenty-second-century surgical center for umpteen bypasses and as many other repairs as they might find were possible?