by Anthology
Though Bill did not speak the difficult language, the ancient Egyptians along the Nile were accustomed to strange merchants coming from far-off lands. Near the open-air, reed-roofed shop, workers harvested the tall green sedge from the swamp, peeling the stalks to take out the pith, laying down strips, crisscrossing them, pounding them, pressing and drying the sheets, then scraping them smooth with a well-worn seashell.
Bill had paid the papyrus maker well and had received fifty rough-cut sheets, enough for the first printing of the Timeshares brochure. Since the Timeshares Travel Agency advertized authenticity above all things, they couldn’t do any less with their promotional materials. He had already told Rolf Jacobsen, the mysterious and wealthy head of the agency, that these brochures must be used for only the most elite potential clients. He didn’t intend to go through all this hassle for a second printing.
Even more difficult than obtaining genuine papyrus had been securing the original artwork. It had sounded like a good idea. He’d gone to prehistoric France to track down a Neanderthal tribe, and he had commissioned original drawings from one of the cave painters. Attempting to art-direct a Neanderthal had been a challenge unlike anything else in his career, but Bill had gotten his sketches, daubed and chalked onto flat pieces of slate, which he’d then taken back to the present and the headquarters of Timeshares, where the art could be scanned and incorporated into the brochure layout.
The final materials would also include photos of the time-travel facility, its high-tech interior with spindle-shaped apparatus topped by silvery spheres haloed by crackling static electricity. Rolf Jacobsen wanted it to look sleek, futuristic, high-tech, but in a “Jules Verne” sense rather than a “neon, hard-edged, Hong Kong” sense. So far the interior of Timeshares had undergone numerous face-lifts and retoolings. Bill had no idea what the final interior was going to look like; it might even change weekly. In his opinion, the time-travel device looked more like something out of Dr. Frankenstein’s lab than a comforting and safe gadget, but he didn’t say anything. His only priority was the sales brochure.
Bill had already written the text: “We’re not just a travel agency—we’re a time travel agency. We offer excursions into the past and future. Take a vacation wherever and whenever you like.”
Inside the dim workshop, Bill studied Gutenberg’s clumsy looking printing press, a cumbersome gadget whose design was based on an old wine press. Gutenberg’s workers would line up the small wooden letter blocks in the tracks, use an ink roller, and then crank down the press upon each sheet of paper.
The next page of Gutenberg’s Bible had been set up for the following day’s printing. He took a quick snapshot with his imaging device so that he could reassemble the letters when he was done, though he didn’t understand many of the German words or the too-fancy type style. “Quickly, his fingers rattling the wooden blocks by the glow of his flashlight, he slid all the words off into a tray, and then painstakingly mounted his own letters, his own text.
“Afraid of flying? The high cost of gas got you down? Want to really get away? Step into our perfectly safe time-travel device and find yourself in exotic historical locations. Adventure and mystery guaranteed, danger definitely possible. It’ll be the experience of a lifetime—of anyone’s lifetime.”
The process of setting the letters was tedious, but authenticity was the most important thing. If Mr. Jacobsen advertized that his clients would experience real history, then the brochure had to be the real thing. Fortunately, all of his promotional text fit onto a single page, even with Gutenberg’s large letter blocks.
As payment, in addition to Bill’s standard fee, Timeshares had offered him an excursion to anyplace he chose, any time. He could witness the greatest events in history, meet the most important figures in all of human civilization. Instead, Bill had asked for a week in the most luxurious resort in Cancun on the Caribbean coast. He had his priorities.
When he had the appropriate words in place, he used a stiff ink roller to cover the printing surface with pasty ink. When it was ready, and before he could make a mess of things, he placed a sheet of clean papyrus on the flat block beneath the press and cranked down the letters, pushing hard to make a clear impression. Then he unscrewed the press, raised it up, and peeled off his sheet of papyrus.
The rough surface of the reeds made the impression blurry and weak in certain spots, but the letters were readable. With so few sheets of papyrus, he couldn’t afford to make many mistakes. Not perfect, but authentic. That was what Mr. Jacobsen wanted.
Timeshares clients would coo over the imperfections and would marvel at the difficulties that had been required just to make this flier. However, Bill didn’t think that the clients would be quite so forgiving of imperfections when they encountered glitches on their very expensive time-travel vacations . . .
He balanced the flashlight where it would better illuminate the work area and put another piece of papyrus under the press, rolled the ink over the printing surface, squeezed down the block letters. He had to get through at least fifty sheets.
That Cancun resort was going to feel wonderful when he was done with this.
Bill finished printing the last sheet an hour before dawn. He didn’t think Mainz had a good coffee shop nearby, so he would have to return to the present for a good strong cup. Now it was time to put everything back in order in Gutenberg’s print shop.
He called up the digitized baseline image he had taken, referring to the biblical words he had disassembled. The verses weren’t familiar to him, especially not in old German. He plucked out the letters he had used for the Timeshares brochure and began to realign the sentences and verses on the page. Bill realized he was short on time, and he moved quickly, several times scrambling letters, which forced him to remove the little blocks and reassemble the words.
Outside the shop, he saw light in the street, a figure moving along. The segmented window glass in Gutenberg’s workplace was rippled and murky, but a man with a lantern was visible out there. A night watchman. He’d probably seen the glow of the flashlight inside the shop.
Bill had left the padlock dangling open on the door, and now the watchman rattled it, and then shouted, apparently calling for help. Bill nearly panicked, but he hurriedly added the last letters to the verses on that page.
The door creaked open, and the watchmen swung his lantern, illuminating the cluttered workshop. “Sorry, I was just leaving,” Bill said, grabbing his stack of papyrus sheets and stuffing them into the leather satchel.
The night watchman yelled something incomprehensible but indisputably German and indisputably furious. Bill shone the flashlight beam in the man’s face, blinding him, and grabbed for his locator device. He punched the panic button.
Back in the Timeshares control room, somebody would be watching (unless they were on a cigarette break). From the other end of the cobblestoned street, some of the drunken and surly oafs from the tavern came lurching along to help.
Bill punched the panic button again and again. When the big smelly men crowded the door, pushing their way to Gutenberg’s shop, Bill grabbed his flashlight, his locator, and his leather satchel with the printed brochures. He stepped back, putting the printing press between himself and the angry men.
Then he felt the flashing blue crackle around him, the dizziness and nausea, the taste of vinegar in the back of his throat.
And he found himself surrounded by clean, modern equipment and air that smelled of ozone rather than printing ink and cat piss.
Rolf Jacobsen met him outside of the field area, arms crossed over his chest and a proud look on his face. Once the Timeshares agency began to operate in full swing, Jacobsen planned to be more of a silent partner and not see off all travelers, but Bill knew that Jacobsen had a hunger for attention. Maybe he would come to watch; maybe he wouldn’t.
Bill let out a long sigh of relief and held out his leather satchel. “I have your brochures, Mr. Jacobsen. They turned out rather well.”
Jacobsen opened
the satchel and withdrew one of the papyrus sheets, looking down at the printing, smudged one of the letters with his fingers.
“The ink will need to dry for some time, sir. Be careful.”
“We’ll digitize and print the other artwork and photos onto these. Authentic and perfect. Exactly what we want.” The leader of Timeshares gave a sincere smile. “Our project is just beginning, Bill.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jacobsen, but I am glad to be done with this project.”
The head of Timeshares had expected nothing else. “We will be happy to recommend your PR firm to many of our sister companies and investors.”
“Thank you, sir. I can always use the work. For now, I’d like to change out of these—” he frowned down at his heavy, scratchy clothes “—authentic period garments.”
Jacobsen gestured him toward the changing rooms. “Be my guest.”
Bill was glad he wouldn’t have to go back in time again. He had seen enough of history, and that last trip had been a little hair-raising. He’d been so rushed putting the wooden blocks back onto the page of Gutenberg’s Bible. Under such circumstances, perfect accuracy couldn’t be expected.
He went off to the changing area where a locker held his real-world clothes. In his hand he still held five of Gutenberg’s wooden blocks. In his rush to reassemble the page, he hadn’t had time to include the last word on the page, “nicht.” Just a little thing, but he didn’t know which Bible verse he had unintentionally altered.
Somehow, he had left out the word not. “Thou shalt” instead of “Thou shalt not.”
Oh well, he wondered if anyone would notice. That was for history to decide.
THE AZTEC SUPREMACIST
Sheralyn Schofield Belyeu
Is the sensible decision always the best decision?
Mr. Harvey and two security guards materialized beside the road to Granada, Spain, in January 1492.
The Hispanic guard, Carranza, noticed the change first. “Where’s Columbus? I don’t see Columbus.”
Dr. Harvey stared around them, his concern quickly turning to fear. “I’ve watched this morning through the viewer a hundred times—he should be right there by now.” He pointed at a rock a few feet away. “I wasted too much time trying to repair the controls—we should have come through the portal right after the Aztec supremacist did.”
“I wish I’d shot him when I had the chance,” Carranza groaned.
“Shot him for what—looking funny?” The Asian guard, Jason Rhee, climbed up on a rock and scanned the countryside through binoculars. “Half of the graduate students show up in period costumes—some of the academics, too. How were you supposed to know he wasn’t really from Berkeley?”
Carranza’s voice shook with frustration. “I should have stayed in the room for the demonstration, then. I could have grabbed him when he left his seat.”
“They were all out of their seats at that point,” Dr. Harvey answered bitterly. “And the viewer was on, so the lights were dim. I had them at the control station so they could see how to lock the tracer onto a specific person.”
Rhee lowered his binoculars and pointed back up the road toward the Spanish encampment. “There’s Columbus—and the supremacist is with him!”
The travelers didn’t know how long the continuity bubble would last—or what would happen to them if the new timeline condensed—but they knew they were their timeline’s only hope. They went toward Columbus at a run.
When they reached him, Dr. Harvey’s heart sank. The supremacist was smiling.
“You see, Columbus, my witnesses took a little longer than I expected, but they have joined us, just as I said they would.” He backed away, holding his hands up so the travelers could see he was still unarmed. “Ask them if I have not told you the truth.”
Even in his pseudo-peasant costume, the supremacist was out of place here—no one in Old Spain had seen American Indian features before. But, wearing twenty-second century street clothes, his pursuers looked ten times worse. The few people still around, those who hadn’t seen the travelers’ unnatural arrival and panicked, crossed themselves and slipped away.
Columbus, white and shaken, stood his ground beside his mule. “Gentlemen, this person tells me that in many years, the Almighty will allow men to journey through time. He says that he has come from the far future with a message for me. A warning.”
The chrono-physicist swallowed his dismay and bowed deeply to Columbus. “Sir, please forgive me for appearing before you dressed like this. I am this poor madman’s physician. As you can see by our peculiar appearance, we came after him as quickly as we could.” He made eye contact with each of the guards and tilted his head toward the supremacist. “With your kind permission, we will take him home and confine him more securely. He will not bother you again.” Guns out, Rhee and Carranza moved to either side of the supremacist.
The supremacist laughed. “And you’re a perfectly ordinary doctor who vowed to wear funny clothes as a penance for your sins, right? Nice try, Dr. Harvey, but he’s not going to buy that. I brought proof that we’re from the future.” He pointed to the ground around Columbus. It was littered with little things—a butane lighter, a solar-powered pocket computer, a flashlight, a wristwatch. All in bright, impossible colors, all made of plastic. Dr. Harvey could have cried.
“What else did he say?”
Columbus indicated a letter clenched in his hand. “He says that Ptolemy’s map of the world and Marco Polo’s geography of Cathay were both wrong. Cathay is twice as far away as I calculated! He says I will reach some small islands with no spices and little gold. He says,” his voice shook with emotion. “He says I will be put in irons and brought back to the court in shame. This is true?”
Jason addressed Columbus by his Spanish name and title. “Senyor Colon, my name is Jason Rhee. As you can see, I am from Cathay.” Not strictly true, but this was no time to explain Rhee’s Korean grandparents to a fifteenth century European—not even to a bright man who read speculative geography. “Although you did not quite reach my country, your name will be held in great honor.”
The supremacist laughed aloud. “Great honor, my foot. You’re a plague carrier—your victims will curse you and die! Even the Spanish won’t love you for long—they’ll mock your sons, Columbus, and tell lies about you. And they won’t name the lands you’ll discover after you. They’ll name them after Amerigo Vespucci!”
Rhee punched the supremacist and Carranza fought to put him in an arm lock. Dr. Harvey raised his voice above the sound of the struggle. “The islands you’ll discover are part of a—a great chain. The chain will be named after Vespucci, but your name will not be forgotten—my home town is Columbus, Georgia!”
Columbus’ face reddened with his famous temper. “Vespucci gets my islands and I get a town?”
Panting from the struggle to hold the supremacist, Ramon Bernardo Carranza de O’Higgins played their last, desperate card. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? This man did not come here to help you; he is an idolater, a descendant of the idolaters you will find beyond the great ocean! He knows that you will bring Christianity to his people and save them from their demon gods! Do not let him turn you from your divine mission!”
The supremacist chose that moment to drop a crucifix at Columbus’s feet.
Columbus studied them all. When he spoke again, his voice was grim. “Perhaps he is an idolater, but he brings me proof. You come in violence with nothing but your own words—and you admit that what he says is true. Perhaps you are the idolaters and he is the true Christian. Let him go while I think.”
At a nod from Dr. Harvey, Carranza released the supremacist.
Columbus quickly skimmed the letter in his hand. “First, the gold. I need it to finance a new crusade, to free the Holy Land from the Mohammedans. But this letter says that the king and queen will break our agreement and deny me my rightful share of what little gold I find. Is this true?”
Dr. Harvey started to tell Columbus that it wasn’t t
rue, that there would be plenty of gold if he would just make the voyage. But he had only gotten out the word “No!” when Rhee reluctantly nodded a yes, and Carranza choked out, “A crusade is not important right now.”
Columbus said nothing for a moment, his expressive face suddenly closed and guarded. The supremacist smirked.
Columbus referred back to the letter. “Scurvy. He says that sailors will die of scurvy trying to reach Amerigo Vespucci’s islands. He says that many years from now, men will learn what causes scurvy and the sailors will not suffer so. Is this true?”
This time, only Dr. Harvey answered. “Well, yes, but—”
“And he says that men will learn how to navigate more safely. An Englishman will invent a machine to keep accurate time at sea. Then captains will be able to calculate their exact speed and position. Without my ‘pathetic guessing.’ ”
“Harrison’s chronometer won’t be marketable until the late 1700s! By then—”
Columbus cut Dr. Harvey off with a wave of his hand. “Is it true that two-thirds of the men who make these voyages will die at sea or on Vespucci’s islands?”
Dr. Harvey sounded desperate now. “The percentage depends on which voyages you consider! If you include—”
“So you admit that if I sail west now, I will neither reach Cathay, nor free Jerusalem, but many men will die going to Vespucciland?”
Dr. Harvey never answered.
The new timeline condensed, the continuity bubble collapsed, and all four of the time-travelers disappeared, their “proofs” fading away with them.
A few minutes later, Queen Isabella’s court bailiff found Columbus standing beside the deserted road.
“Senyor Colon,” he cried, “I have news for you—good news! Santangel begged the queen to reconsider your requests, and she relents! She summons you back to the court. Senyor Colon, she will sponsor your voyage to Cathay!”