The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  Of course, she couldn’t properly wear the jeans or the strange top that went with it. And she would have to manage to wear the shoes from Hazel’s world. Miss Sanchez came from a world of people with very narrow feet, so regular shoes would not fit her well. Her big toes were small and stubby and were only slightly larger than the others. Also, her eyes were a shade of brown that was unusually light. They were nearly golden, almost catlike, though not so strange that they drew undue attention.

  “Tell me about your world,” said Hazel. “What’s it like in a hundred years?”

  Hazel sat on the edge of the bed while Miss Sanchez looked at herself in the mirror and pinned up her hair. Hazel considered offering to help, but though Miss Sanchez was inexperienced, after having spent a few weeks with Mrs. Washington before she was pulled through the time rip, she had learned enough to fix her hair competently, though slowly.

  “I’m originally from 2015 and I was just in 1961. I wasn’t even born yet. But in a hundred years, women can vote.”

  Hazel caught Miss Sanchez looking at her in the mirror.

  “And most families have an automobile. Do you remember what those are?”

  “I remember,” said Hazel. “You drew one for me on a scrap of paper when I was younger.”

  “You have indoor plumbing, but in my time, almost everyone has it. Everyone in America anyway. And central heating, automatic dishwashers and clothes washers and dryers. Plus, we have chocolate in almost every store. Really, you can buy a chocolate bar almost anywhere. And all different kinds of fruit, even out of season.”

  Her world sounded like a wonderland of pleasures. But Hazel was old enough to know that no such thing existed. “And what bad things are there?”

  Miss Sanchez really appeared to be thinking about it. “Well, manners disappeared. No one calls anyone “Miss” or “Mister” like they do here. Hospitality isn’t the same. And people are more on their own. Here, people stay in the same neighborhood, all together, for generations. You know how the Irish all live in one neighborhood? They help each other out. They watch each other’s children and take care of the widows and the elderly. In my time, each individual is sort of on their own.”

  Hazel had been on her own before, so that was not frightening to her. “What would my life be like, if I lived in your time?”

  Miss Sanchez gave her a funny look, and Hazel’s intuition rang like a tiny bell. Miss Sanchez was hiding something. Or perhaps she sensed that Hazel had an ulterior motive for asking. Well, she did. If she knew what the future was like, it might help her make a better decision about Mr. Ross. Even though Neil Grey was coming, she also could go with Miss Sanchez to her world, if she wanted to.

  Miss Sanchez continued. “You could achieve any level of education your talents allowed. You could study physics and invent amazing things that even the Professor would wonder at. You could be a musician and play with the Boston Philharmonic, right alongside men. Or play as a solo artist.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  “It is. But you shouldn’t try to come with me when the Professor finds a way to send me home.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because, it’s not all fun and freedom. Even if we managed to fake an identity for you, you’d have to go to college for years and take out loans that would take forever to pay off. You wouldn’t even have a high school diploma. And if you wanted to play violin at a professional level, the competition is fierce. You’d start off without any money and people might think you were crazy since you wouldn’t have memories of the same things they do. You wouldn’t know ordinary social conventions either.”

  “I could learn.”

  “You could. I know you could,” Miss Sanchez said. Again, Hazel thought she was hiding something.

  “What are you not telling me?” asked Hazel.

  Miss Sanchez sighed. “I’m only trying to give you a realistic view. I can imagine being seventeen and thinking that the future is some sort of magical place without problems. And that’s not the case.”

  “I’m not so naïve as that. I’m a grown woman.”

  “Not at seventeen, you’re not.”

  Her tone made Hazel’s anger flash hot. She forced her voice into a polite but firm tone, one becoming a Southern lady of breeding and manners.

  “I have to disagree. You come from a world where there was plenty to eat and every opportunity to do what you wanted and to pursue whatever goals you might have. A world very different than mine. I’ve lived by my wits on the streets, while at the same age, you were still in grammar school. And when I was thirteen, I traveled all on my own to Boston where I studied hard and was at the top of my class. After the war started, I came home and taught music to children. And now, I may be getting married.”

  Miss Sanchez spun around in her chair. “Married!”

  “Mr. Ross asked me.”

  “Seamus didn’t tell me that.”

  Miss Sanchez sometimes referred to the Professor by his Christian name, usually when she was caught off guard and forgot her manners. Well, Hazel would not forget hers. She was a Southern lady, whatever her age or past might be.

  “He asked me the other day,” she said. “And I might still accept. I’m trying to decide.”

  “But you’re so young!”

  “I’m not that young. I’m not in danger of being put on the shelf, true. Tell me, how old are women when they marry in your world?”

  “They have to be eighteen, legally. But most people wait until they’re in their mid-twenties.”

  “But how long until a woman is considered a spinster?”

  “We don’t even use that word. If a woman doesn’t marry, she doesn’t marry.”

  “But what about children and a home and a husband?”

  “You can have children without a husband, you know. In my world, it’s common. You can’t come with me, but if you did, you could have a child without marrying the father.”

  Such talk would have been cause for scandalized gasps among her friends, but Hazel did not laugh. For Miss Sanchez to even insinuate that she would do such a thing was offensive.

  “I’ll ask you not to mock me,” Hazel said.

  Miss Sanchez had a confused look. “I’m merely saying that women in my time don’t always marry. And if they do, they can get divorced. So there are plenty of single mothers.”

  “Divorced?”

  Miss Sanchez must have seen her shock, because her look became sympathetic.

  “I know that in your time, it’s a great scandal,” Miss Sanchez said, getting up and coming to sit beside Hazel on the bed. “But in my time, people only stay married if they want to.”

  “But they took vows. Before God.”

  Miss Sanchez sighed, and Hazel felt more than ever how different her world was from the future. Now playing in an orchestra with men and wearing trousers indeed sounded like childish delights.

  “We’re not so … strict on things like that,” said Miss Sanchez. “And not everyone believes in God, and everyone isn’t Christian, even if they do.”

  “That doesn’t bother me. I have friends who are Protestant, and we get on very well. Cassandra, my closest friend, is a Baptist, and Mr. Ross is a Methodist.”

  “Be that as it may, it’s a very different world. But that’s enough of that. Now, tell me about this Mr. Ross person.”

  “He’s the son of an ink manufacturer, though he’s running the business himself now. He’ll own it entirely by summer.”

  “And what’s he like?”

  “We’re good friends, and he’s pleasant company. He’s pleasant looking and has a kind heart.”

  “And you love him?”

  Hazel sighed. That was the question. “I don’t know. I know I could be happy with him, but I’m not sure if I’ll accept hi
s offer.”

  “And if you don’t marry him, then you can go on playing and teaching music, correct?”

  “If I like, yes. The Professor said I could stay here forever if I liked. I could be a happy spinster, maybe.”

  Miss Sanchez nodded, as if deciding something, and Hazel again felt much younger, like a child whose life was somehow being decided for her. She thought about mentioning Mr. Grey and his promised visit in a few days, but she didn’t. A wedge had gone up between Miss Sanchez and herself, a split in their understanding of the world, and Hazel wasn’t quite sure if she could breach it.

  Chapter 16

  January 5, 1864

  Louisville, Kentucky

  From his position leaning against the balcony railing of the Whitlock Hotel, Neil saw clearly that Louisville was a city at war. Kentucky was a border state, part of the Union, but historically a slave state. It had declared neutrality when the Confederate states seceded, but when the South had tried to claim it, Kentucky had asked the Union for help and had been under Union control since. As far as Neil knew, it would remain with the Union until the war ended.

  Neil watched as four men, all in blue Union uniforms, patrolled below. People on the streets moved away from them as they approached. It was subtle, but the quick glances, the way people stiffened when they spotted the men, all told him that good guys or not, people did not like armed men walking the streets.

  Elliot came out and leaned on the railing beside him. “I love this part. Just watching.”

  “They’re at war.”

  “True, but this is still a beautiful city.”

  Neil glanced at him, and Elliot had a gentle smile as he looked down, like a benevolent spirit, watching over the people with a distant sort of affection.

  A covered cart rattled past. “Munitions,” said Elliot. “See the guards?” There were five men riding along, guarding the contents from all sides. “Ah, but this is a lovely city, so much history.”

  “Doesn’t the war bother you?” said Neil.

  “Of course. But I do love my job.”

  It was Neil’s job now too. He had accepted Elliot’s offer of employment with a group known as the Time Corps, and now they were heading to Memphis. The riverboat they were due to travel on would not leave until the next day, and Elliot’s travel budget seemed to rival the one Mr. March had always provided for Neil. They were able to afford excellent rooms at the hotel and lavish cabins on the riverboat.

  “Have you been to this time before?” asked Elliot.

  “I was here a few years ago, before the war started. But I’ve never been to Louisville.”

  “Then you should see the city.”

  They took a walk, and Neil noticed that after they got away from the nicer area near the hotel, Elliot did not hesitate to go into the poorer neighborhoods, places where the gutters were filled with refuse and downtrodden people gave them wary looks, or hungry ones. Some were sizing them up.

  Neil kept alert, ready for anyone who might decide to rob them, but he had no real fear. He was only of average size, but he was stronger, faster and more ruthless than all but the most skilled fighters. Though he was only twenty, he had enough experience to know how he held up in a fight. He wondered about Elliot. The older man had a jovial, carefree air about him, but Neil saw him taking in his surroundings, assessing. If Elliot knew him from the future, then he must know Neil was good in a fight. Was he counting on Neil to defend him, or could Elliot give as good as he got?

  “The true heart of the city,” Elliot said with a contented sigh. “You really get a flavor for how things are when you see how the poorest live.” His tone was affectionate, which struck Neil as odd, considering the presence of a group of three young men watching them. Elliot gave them a quick look and said, “Sunset is not too far off, and we ought to be moving to another area of town.”

  They turned back and took a horse-drawn cab downtown. The homes grew nicer, the public buildings better maintained. They stopped at a restaurant where a short line wound out the door, but it appeared to be one of the nicer places in town and Neil was content to let Elliot take him wherever he pleased. A couple stood in front of them, and since Elliot seemed to be the sort of companion who was content with silence, Neil overheard their conversation.

  “It’s tonight, at the Branham house on Oak Street,” said the man. “Many of the big decision makers will be there.”

  “But what if that abysmal Tooley woman is there?” said the woman who was presumably his wife. “I wouldn’t want to be seen in the same room with her, the awful woman.”

  “Just listen to the music and look at the art. Make some polite comments. You won’t have any difficulty. I need to talk to a few people, make some connections.”

  “Even so,” she sighed, “I wish we didn’t have to.”

  “Most of the city council will be there, Judge Abrams, and the governor even said he might come by. Also, two of the colonels from Virginia will be there.”

  “I detest war talk.”

  “I’m sorry, darling, but you knew you’d have to endure such things before you married me.”

  “Tell me about the art. That might not be so bad.”

  “There are some rarer pieces in the Branham collection. Rumor has it that Mrs. Branham will be unveiling a Rembrandt.”

  The couple was seated, and Neil did not have a chance to listen to the rest of the conversation.

  “What do you say we drop by also?” said Neil to Elliot. “I’d love to see a Rembrandt.”

  “Not if all those movers and shakers are going to be there, we can’t. Too much risk of us saying something wrong or disrupting an important conversation.”

  “I’ll be as silent as the grave. They won’t even notice I’m there. I can do that.”

  “I know you can. I just don’t think it’s wise.”

  “Do you know how much art was lost in the Civil War? Family collections were scattered. Some pieces were never seen again. Who knows what piece this is? And what if it gets burned or stolen or even painted over by some ignorant art student who can’t afford fresh canvases?”

  Elliot sighed. “Look, Neil, I know you love Rembrandt and Van Gogh and all the other Dutch guys …”

  “Not all of them,” Neil said, defensive. “Only the good ones. And Rembrandt and Van Gogh are both brilliant, but are in different categories. Rembrandt had a way of capturing people, their life, their spirits shining out through their skin, their physical movement, all caught in an instant. And Van Gogh’s rooms and landscapes are completely different. They live too, but in a different way.” It was strange that his memory was so full of holes, and yet all of this was clear to him.

  “Fine, if it’ll keep you out of this art gathering thing, we’ll take a steamship to Holland and ask Van Gogh to paint you something special.”

  “He’s only ten years old right now,” said Neil and then he caught the joking glint in Elliot’s eye. “And I don’t want to own the Rembrandt, only to see it.”

  Their meal of steak and butter beans arrived.

  “It’s too risky. Too many influential people will be there,” said Elliot. “And that’s all there is to it. We can’t go.”

  Neil silently fumed. If anyone could be inconspicuous, it was he. He could get in, see the painting, and then get out. Simple. Did Elliot think he was an amateur?

  They ate peach pie for dessert and after paying for their meal, they headed toward the nearest major street where they could find a cab to take them home.

  “Have you seen the future of this world?” asked Neil. “Do you know who wins the Civil War?” He already knew the answer. The North would win, but he did not know if Elliot was aware of the fact.

  “Yes, and it’s the North,” said Elliot.

  “But if I go to that Rembrandt event, then that
could be disrupted?”

  “Doubtful. Time travel is not like it is in the movies from our time where you wink at a girl and she misses meeting her future husband and Einstein is never born. Or you squish a bug and the earth’s climate gets changed. Things aren’t so fragile as that, though some events are more fragile than others. It depends. But attending this social function is still risky. There is a chance you could affect some events. Like one of the colonels should talk to someone about a certain thing and then it gives them an idea about some strategy. If you’re interrupting that, then a different battle might take place.”

  “And would that form an unstable time loop?” asked Neil. Elliot had spent most of the morning explaining how the Time Corps existed to repair time loops, straighten time lines and fix various mysterious things that could affect the proper flow of events.

  Elliot gestured as if his hands were the two sides of a scale. “Maybe and maybe not.”

  “Setting aside the art party entirely, if you know that the war goes to the North, wouldn’t it be better to speed it up on purpose? To try to intervene so fewer people die? It wouldn’t affect the war overall.”

  “It’s not so simple.”

  “But if you do nothing, it means more death. Seems simple enough to me.”

  “We can’t spend our entire lives trying to fine-tune history. There are billions of people, and you could go a whole lifetime trying to tweak the timelines just so. We deal with the bigger issues.”