“I’m not the one he asked,” said Jim, slipping his arm around her shoulder. “Let’s go home,” he said tiredly. “You coming, Milano?”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Musashi.
“I’m in charge here,” said Kessler.
“Not in this regard, sir,” said Musashi. He turned to Jim, Angie and Kaeko. “This is the other part of my brief—actualized Potentials can’t roam about in this time.”
“Is that what we are?” asked Angie. “Actualized Potentials?”
“Yes,” said the Japanese. “You’ll find you’ve ever-greater control of your abilities—abilities which will, perhaps, grow even stronger.”
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Kessler.
“Merely a catalyst, Mr. Kessler,” said Musashi. “You do need to come back with me, the three of you,” he said, his gaze encompassing Angie, O’Malley and Kaeko. “If you wish to keep your abilities, be trained in their use, in exchange for being put to good work, we can offer you that. If you decide to return home, we can arrange to remove your Potential through genetic surgery and send you back. The choice is yours.”
“If you can alter a person’s genetic heritage, can’t you then also add to it?” asked Kaeko.
That’s my girl, thought Jim.
“Not quite yet,” said Musashi. “Soon, perhaps. And if that becomes possible,” he added, “you can thank Schmidla for it. His staff will soon be running a comparison of the human genome to that of third-generation Potentials. Not long from now they’ll understand where and how the two differ.”
“So do you believe we’re not human, Tennu?” asked Angie as Caddock’s men removed Billy Budd’s corpse.
“She’s extremely human,” said Jim. “I can testify.” Angie hit him lightly on his good shoulder.
“We’re all human,” said the Japanese. “Any inhumanity we have is in our thoughts and our actions, not in our biology.”
He turned to watch the great red orb of the sun now rising above the clouds, out beyond Boston Light. It reminded him of another sunrise in another harbor, long ago. “I’ve seen so much death and misery. And always I ask myself if I’ve learned anything from it. For there seems little sense in continuing if one doesn’t grow and learn.”
“And what have you learned, sensei?” asked Kaeko.
Perhaps it was the way she said it, but Jim felt a silly twinge of jealousy.
“Nothing is immutable, nothing is written. Just a few people can make a difference, no matter how frightful the odds. Which is what happened here. Just a few of you prevented Schmidla and Whitsun from obtaining the Eldridge roster. And one man—George Campbell—ensured that it could never again be recovered. Had Schmidla gotten those names, the future—our future—would have been one of blood and conquest and genocide. You prevented that.”
“If we’re having a Quaker prayer meeting,” said Jim, “let me just say that George was right—evil, real tangible evil, exists.”
“Yes,” said Musashi. “Today it failed. But it’s relentless. Tomorrow...” He shrugged. “So, I ask that the three of you go with me now. We can help you to understand and master your abilities, and offer you adventures enough to fill several lifetimes, should you wish.”
“Now? Like, right now?” asked Angie.
“Yes.”
“How?” asked Kaeko.
“Much the way you traveled today—as a group, moving in unison. There aren’t that many of you who can do that—Kaeko’s one of them. I’ll guide you. You won’t hear Rebecca’s sad flute again.”
“Who?” asked Kaeko.
“Later,” said Tennu. “Enough sadness for one day.”
“Will they ever be back?” asked Jim, feeling his world slipping away.
“Yes,” said Kaeko and Angie together.
“Or they won’t be going, Tennu,” added Angie.
“She’s right,” said Kaeko. “You can’t compel us.”
“Do you think it responsible of you to stay here, unable to control your Potential?” he asked mildly.
“Can we come back?” asked Angie.
“If you choose to, yes, but there is that price,” said Musashi.
“We need to speak among ourselves,” said Kaeko.
As Jim watched, the Potentials seemed to withdraw to Somewhere Else. “How did Rourke --Telemachus—get here from downtime?” he asked.
“Mechanical means,” said Musashi. “As did I. Much of string theory can now be expressed mathematically. Engineering is following. But temporal transfer requires an enormous consumption of resources and isn’t often done—a mark of how desperate Schmidla’s offspring are becoming. Of course, many of them can move about in the same time, just as Rourke did, flitting up here from McLean.”
“Where are you from, Tennu?” asked Jim. “Originally?”
“Your past. I was swept off Kikuzuki during the experiment, landing downtime in the middle of a battle. A bad day. The experience gave me the ability to serve as a sort of facilitator for Potentials—especially fledgling ones. Did you know that Emma’s parents were on the Kikuzuki during the experiment?” he asked Jim.
“Yes. But she didn’t have any special abilities.”
“Didn’t she? We all keep secrets, Jim, even from those we love. Maybe especially from them.”
“Wouldn’t know anything about a recent opportune power failure at GRD Corporation, would you?” asked Kessler.
“Two, actually. And Admiral Whitsun didn’t think it opportune, Mr. Kessler,” said Musashi with a mischievous grin.
“Do you have family here?” asked Kessler.
“My family all died in the war—World War Two. Firestorms from the bombings.”
I have a family, thought Jim, looking at Angie and Kaeko who were still Elsewhere.
Colonel Caddock had been on his cellphone again. “Mr. Kessler? The eval and debriefing teams are enroute. ETA 1200.”
“Continue securing the island,” said Kessler. “Advise Langley that Mr. Budd’s fallen in the line of duty. And start pulling most of your troops out of here, Colonel. D-Day’s over.”
“We’ve made our decision,” said Angie.
Chapter 32
They met him just outside of Customs at Frankfurt Airport, his three principal partners. Two were fellow physicians and the grandchildren of brother officers, the third equally dedicated and a gifted geneticist.
“Cable news is reporting an attack of some sort on a bio-terrorist base in Boston,” said Kurt. “It’s a miracle you survived. It looks like a war!”
“It was just a raid,” he said wearily as they walked.
“Give me your claim checks, Richard. I’ll have your bags picked up.”
“I don’t have any bags. I barely got away with my life,” he said as they rode the escalator.
Stepping onto the main concourse, Schmidla walked out of his right shoe. His stockinged foot came down on the slippery marble and he staggered. He’d have fallen if Kurt hadn’t grabbed his elbow.
Pushing back through those behind him, Schmidla picked up his shoe, staring at it as people flowed around him. It was tightly laced, a still-damp brown Bally brougham—Boston’s airport shops had yielded new trousers in his size, but no shoes.
“‘Goodbye, Uncle Richard.’” There’d been something about the way she’d said it. And she’d always been such a subtle girl.
Suppressing a growing sense of alarm, Schmidla held both his arms out straight, examining the cuffs of his suede jacket. Also bought at the airport, a few hours ago it had fit well for off-the-rack, the cuffs hanging just right, a tad below his wrists. Now they were almost touching his knuckles.
By the time he’d reached his hotel suite the cuffs were below his knuckles and he found himself calculating with cool detachment just how long he had left. He’d provided the website access information to Kurt, scratching it out in the back of the stricken young geneticist’s address book as the limo wound through the traffic. Still, there were other things they should k
now, things that would save them time. They’d wanted to stay with him, but he’d sent them off, reminding them of their duty—a dignified farewell. His triumph was now in their hands.
Clinically, it was an interesting problem, thought Schmidla, sitting on the edge of his bed: how small could a person become and yet still live? At what point would shrinkage compromise the structural integrity of his vital organs? Or perhaps his brain would give in first, synapses no longer able to fire?
He was thinking about it when he looked down again and saw the liver spots blossoming on the backs of his hands, his knuckles and wrists grown suddenly knobby. Startled despite himself, he looked into the mirror above the bureau: an ancient, wizened gnome stared back, its eyes sunk into its face, brown-splotched wattles of dry flesh hanging from its pointed chin.
So diabolical, he thought proudly, lying back with a grunt of effort. What a brilliant girl I raised! He wished only that he had the strength to pour himself a drink and raise a toast to her. A toast to her, and also, why not? to the long trail of forgotten and unhallowed dead who’d enabled him to live a purposeful life, a life that had made a difference, would forever make a difference.
Finding it increasingly hard to breathe, he toasted them as the light grew faint: to that wise owl, Max Hoffman, then a mere colonel, who’d decorated him after Tannenberg—the Pour le Mérite—promoted him, and taken him from the mud and the blood of the Eastern Front, making him his adjutant and almost certainly saving his life. To his mother, resolute after his craven father hung himself, hounded to death by the blood-sucking Jews. A stern whipcord of a woman—some unfairly said hard—whose opportunities had never equaled her drive and intellect, selling everything in the magnificent old house right down to the walls. To the Bohemian Corporal, who with his comical mustache, burning eyes and absurd locution had mesmerized the masses and provided a creative physician with opportunities for growth and fulfillment in the charnel house of his Thousand Year Reich. And of course, to Terry Whitsun and the long parade of those sanctimonious, hopelessly naïve Americans with all their money—so easily manipulated, so secretly desirous of his approval even as they’d delighted in reviling him, thinking themselves so clever, so morally superior. Yes, two glasses to the Americans and all their lovely money! Oh and of course, he should toast his shipmates from the von Blücher, except he couldn’t remember their names, just their young sacred faces. And to the Jews and the POWs and the children of all those sailors, but try as he might, he couldn’t recall even a single face, only their screams.
What a marvelous, gloriously bloody century he’d had! But nothing like the future! Wait until tomorrow, he thought, all the tomorrows I’m bequeathing you, oh world! A toast to tomorrow! Prost!
Then he started laughing, increasingly drier cackles that fell to muted croaks. And he laughed and he laughed and he laughed until he died.
Epilogue
April 1999
Tomorrow Belongs to Me
Finished trimming the azaleas—a half-assed job, he decided—Jim went around to the back of his house and put the shears in the tool shed. Going to the rear door, he glanced at what had been Bill Ender’s house, empty now and for sale, Patty and the kids having moved near to her mother in San Diego, their lives outwardly eased by Bill’s hefty life insurance payout. The unfinished wooden playset sat forlorn in the backyard, a wrench and hammer rusting on the platform, only vines climbing it.
Sighing, he went into the kitchen, glancing at the wall clock: just a tad after noon—an ale was in order. Opening the fridge, he took a brown pint bottle from behind a decaying clump of broccoli. Pouring the amber liquid into a tall glass, he settled down to read the Sunday paper, swollen with Easter shopping supplements. It’d been four months and three days since Angie, O’Malley and Kaeko had stepped back into the Chamber at Smalls Island, slipped into their crèches, and under Musashi’s guidance, disappeared along with the Japanese in that now-familiar radiant white nimbus. Four months, three days and four hours, but who’s counting?
The doorbell rang. Probably the neighborhood kids selling more unneeded candy, he assured himself, all but running to the front hall and throwing open the door.
She stood there, jeans and a green plaid blouse visible under the long leather overcoat belted loosely around her waist. “I’m out of the goddess business,” she said.
With a cry of joy, Jim swept Angie off her feet.
“God, I’ve missed you,” she said, kissing him.
“This calls for a drink,” he said, leading the way into the kitchen.
Keeping her coat on, she’d take only a ginger ale, letting him pour her a ginger ale, then sat across from him at the table.
“So, how’s Kaeko?” he asked. She seemed diffident, he thought, and what? apprehensive? And had put on weight.
“Happy,” she said. “She sends her love. She and Tennu are an item, by the way. They’ll be here in June. And her abilities just keep increasing—she’s already as accomplished as any of their best.”
“June,” he said unhappily.
“She’s been real busy, Jim. So, how’ve you been?”
He shrugged. “Oh, fine, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Considering that you all just ran off and left me—off to embrace your Potential.”
“It didn’t seem to us like we had a choice.”
“Maybe not. But how’d you like to find your kid—a kid you’d thought a long time dead—find her and then, holding her for what? two minutes, total? see her just go POOF! and gone. Not to mention your girlfriend.”
“Thanks for the afterthought. What the hell did you want us to do, Jim? Hit Tennu over the head, dump him in the harbor and say piss-off to humanity?”
“I could’ve lived with that.”
“Look, he was right. We couldn’t be left here, not with our unchecked talents—our ever-growing unchecked talents. On a bad day, I might have set off an earthquake. Tim, well, Tim apparently doesn’t so much predict as fiddle with stuff, though he didn’t know it then. He could’ve brought the whole economy crashing down in his unwitting pursuit of profit. And Kaeko? Ha! Like her mother, an artist, only she sculpts—using matter and energy, and on a grand scale. No, we were dangerous. We had to go.”
“All Potentials please check your talents at the door,” he said. “It’s been a long and lonely four months.”
“And three days,” she added. “Are you through indulging your self-pity?”
“For now.”
“Good. Kaeko’s eager to spend time with you, wants to get to know you, learn about her mother. She and Tennu want to stay for the summer.”
“They can spend forever here and welcome. So, what can you tell me about your adventures?”
“Not much,” she said, sipping her soda. “The future’s a fascinating and scary place. And we did good, giving that roster to Tennu, Jimbo. Trust me—we did real good.”
“And so, are you really here to stay?” he asked too casually.
“Yes.”
“No regrets?”
“I never asked for that whole bagatelle of abilities. And I kept thinking about that scum I impaled on Tim’s fence. That one person could do that to another... It made me no better than Rourke and his kind.” She shook her head. “They offered me a way out and I took it.”
“When did you get back?”
“Last night.”
“Did you step out of a phone booth?”
“If there were any left, I would have. How’s Tooky?”
“Fully recovered. He and Fred Kessler have been talking partnership. Freddy’s pretty disgusted with our government and Tooky’d like to open a D.C. office as long as he doesn’t have to live here in what he aptly calls asshole city.
“How’s your relationship with the Navy Department? Any idea?” he asked. “I’m contracting at the Pentagon proper now, not at the Bureau, but rumor has it your name’s never mentioned up there—you’re a disapearedo.”
“The N
avy and I no longer have a relationship,” she said. “I spoke with Kessler this morning. While I was gone, he squared things with the Navy—I’ve been honorably discharged, with pension credits for twenty years’ service. And a retroactive promotion to full Commander for the last three years, which bumps up my pension. Even got a medal. They’re mailing it here.”
“Cool. So, did you bring me a gift from the future?”
“I did bring you something,” she said, rising, finally taking off her overcoat, letting him see the gentle swell of her belly. “But from the past.”
“Ah,” he managed after a moment. “Are you...?”
“You’re not even going to hint that they’re not yours?” she said dangerously.
“No!” he said, stunned. “‘They’re?!’”
“Twins. A girl and a boy. You do remember that night in New Hampshire?”
“Vividly,” he said, collecting his wits. “Are they going to have your abilities?”
“If they want to keep them, yes. It’s a decision they’ll have to make when they’re old enough. Now look,” she continued hurriedly, “Just because I showed up here preggers doesn’t mean you have to do the conventional thing. I mean, it’s the 20th century and I’ve admired many single parents—lots of them raise their kids better than they would have with a partner, besides...”
“They’ve got this waiting period here,” he said. “So the earliest we could get married would be Tuesday. There’s this nice little town with a justice of the peace up in the Blue Ridge, near Front Royal. Apple blossoms should be coming out. Then maybe we could rent a cabin along the Shenandoah for a week or so—nothing fancy. Barbecue, go hiking, fishing, fool around.”
“Ok,” she said.
Only afterwards did it occur to him that he’d soon be the father of not one but three third-generation Potentials.
“I’d forgotten how horny you pregnant girls get,” Jim said much later, when she’d finished with him.
“We’re insatiable,” she agreed. “Just a rage of hormones. Keep it up and I’ll probably get pregnant again,” she added, lying down beside him, pulling the covers up.
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