TimeLabs Inc

by L. V. Lloyd

  “The mountain itself does not actually erupt, but the fissure grows until it stretches for twenty seven kilometres,” advised Marcella. “The fumes are a mixture of hydrofluoric acid and sulphur dioxide—they end up killing over 50% of the livestock and thousands of humans.”

  She paused to let that sink in before continuing. “As I said, we have to stay inside! I suggest you settle down somewhere comfortable to watch. You’ll never see something as dramatic as this again, most likely. I’ll have a bit of a rest, and you two can open a bottle of champagne or two and relax for the day. There’s no-one outside so you can turn the whole wall of your room transparent, like a window.”

  Zak couldn’t help smiling. That did actually sound rather good. It was terrible about the loss of life of course, but there wasn’t anything he or Sam could do about that. This was history and it had already happened.

  A day lazing around with Sam, drinking champagne and watching lava fountaining out of the ground. He smirked at the image this conjured up. If he had his way, volcanoes wouldn’t be the only things erupting that day. He hunted around for a bottle of champagne in the time machine’s cooling unit.

  Sam pushed his worries to one side. He wasn’t convinced that Marcella had landed the time machine in the wrong spot at Alnwick Castle, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it now. He should just relax and enjoy the day with Zak. He took the glass of ice cold champagne Zak gave him and followed him into their room.

  Day Five

  Albion House, Buckinghamshire, March 1818

  Marcella was on her feet the next day and able to operate the time machine, rather to Zak’s disappointment.

  “Today we meet Mary Shelley,” she announced, in Tour Guide mode. “As you know, her most famous novel, Frankenstein, was published anonymously in London on the first of January 1818. Did you know, however, that it was written in 1816, the ‘Year Without a Summer’? It’s interesting that the ‘Year Without a Summer’ was caused by the eruption of another volcano. In 1815, Mount Tambora in Indonesia erupted—one of the most powerful events in recorded history. The huge clouds of volcanic ash caused temperatures to drop around the globe due to reduced sunlight. Some people claim it was the beginning of modern climate change.”

  Sam and Zak listened with interest.

  “Now today, I have something special for you. The Shelleys are having an open day at their current home, Albion House, just for the local people. In fact, the event is a bit of a ruse because they are about to flee England for Italy to escape Percy Shelley’s creditors. Anyway, the point is that there will be a lot of people wandering around whom they don’t know.”

  Marcella smiled as she saw Zak’s eyes light up with understanding. “I have some costumes for you to put on and you can roam around the grounds for an hour or so, as long as you are careful. Stick together and don’t engage anyone in conversation. Nod and smile from a distance.”

  Filled with excitement, Sam and Zak pulled on the rough trousers and shirts Marcella gave them and fastened the bulky jackets. They pulled straw hats on their heads and old boots on their feet.

  Marcella had parked the time machine in a disused barn and they waited until she made sure no-one was passing before they emerged into the daylight. It felt odd leaving the machine without their suits and eye shields but also very exciting. They strolled around the grounds, at first trying not to stare too much, but then giving in as they realised everyone else was wide-eyed and open mouthed.

  Zak examined every group of people, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mary Shelley. Surely Marcella wouldn’t have brought them to this spot if Mary was going to remain inside?

  No, there she was! A small woman, with her hair in brown ringlets, and wearing a white gown with a green cloak over the top. Zak got as close as he could, hoping to hear her voice as she spoke to her female companion. Sam put a restraining hand on his arm, it wouldn’t do for Zak to attract too much attention, but the two men were able to follow behind, stopping every so often to pretend interest in a flower or tree.

  When Mary Shelley unexpectedly changed direction and looked right at Zak for a second, he froze. Then he gave a low bow, and received a tiny nod and a faint smile in acknowledgement. It was the highlight of his day.

  Eventually they returned to the time machine where Marcella was waiting. “That was brilliant,” said Zak. “I feel like reading the book again now.”

  “Have you read the first version?” asked Marcella. “You know she changed the story slightly with each edition. Most people are familiar with the third version, published in 1831.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Zak, entering his request into the small console unit which was for the use of passengers. He paused. “I thought you said it was published on New Year’s Day 1818?”

  “That’s right,” agreed Marcella, “That was the first time.”

  “It says here the date was the 11th of March.”

  “That’s odd. I wonder how that could happen? Wikipedia10 comes with a guarantee of 99% accuracy these days.”

  “This must be part of the 1% then,” Zak shrugged off the discrepancy. “I guess it’s not important, the main thing is that the original story is here.”

  Sam frowned.

  Day Six

  Madison Square Garden, USA, 19th May 1962

  “It’s our last day, today,” said Zak as he lay in bed next to Sam that morning. “Looking forward to the President’s party? Marcella said she’ll park on the roof again and we should be able to slip inside if we wear our suits. We’ll be able to find a spot up amongst the girders, maybe on a catwalk or somewhere.”

  “It’ll be great, won’t it? Actually hearing Marilyn sing, in person.”

  “It’ll be excellent!”

  The time machine landed on the roof of the third Madison Square Garden, which would be demolished only a few years later in 1968. Sam and Zak were already dressed in their light-bending suits with a map of the top story—access for technicians only—downloaded to their eye shields.

  They found their way to the lookout spot without too much trouble and settled in to stare at the crowd below while they waited. The magnification feature of the eye shields came in very handy. They had arrived about half way through the party and other performers were entertaining the guests.

  “Isn’t that Ella Fitzgerald?” breathed Sam.

  “I think so,” said Zak.

  Eventually a stunningly beautiful woman appeared on stage, followed by the master of ceremonies, Peter Lawford. “Mr President, the late Marilyn Monroe,” joked Lawford, who had been waiting all evening for Marilyn to arrive.

  Sam and Zak stared at each other, bewildered.

  “But that’s not Marilyn,” said Zak, at exactly the same time that Sam said, “Who’s that?”

  They peered at the woman with their eye shields on maximum magnification. “It looks like Marilyn,” admitted Zak. “But she’s got black hair. I thought she was always a blonde? Wasn’t that her trademark?”

  Sam was nodding. “I’ve seen photos of this event from the archives. She was definitely blonde at this concert. Something’s wrong.”

  Although she sang “Happy Birthday, Mr President,” in as sultry a voice as Zak and Sam had imagined, both men were distracted by the incongruity of a Marilyn Monroe with glossy black hair.

  “It’s the compound effect of time travel,” said Sam. “It’s changed history again.”

  Zak didn’t want to believe him, but... something had definitely changed.

  “We should get back to the time machine and tell Marcella. We need to report this to someone,” he told Sam.

  Sam nodded grimly. “So far the changes appear to be relatively minor, but who knows what will happen next time? TimeLabs should hold off on any more trips until they sort this out.”

  Marcella was reluctant to take them seriously. “Are you sure she hadn’t just dyed her hair for the concert?” she protested. Unconsciously her hand went to rub her wounded shoulder. In the end though,
she agreed that they should return a little earlier than planned, and report their concerns to Jennifer Rose, the manager of TimeLab.

  They returned to 2155, arriving in a different room from the one they had left a week ago. Zak and Sam couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief, much as they had enjoyed the trip. That last incident with the change of Marilyn’s hair colour had thrown them more than they wanted to admit.

  Marcella spent a minute confirming that Ms Rose was available to see them, then led the way down a long passage. They turned a corner into another passage and were just in time to see the backs of three figures disappearing into a room. They recognised the salesman who had sold them their package. He was accompanying a young couple—a smartly dressed man, and a woman with long red hair.

  The door shut behind them.

  “That was weird,” commented Sam. “That man looked just like you, Zak, from the back. Have you got a twin brother?”

  Tattoo

  I stepped onto the walkway, happy to have finished work for the day and eager to get home to the man who was both my master and my lover.

  I spared a quiet thank you to the Administrators for having installed the latest walkway—it made the journey so much easier for me. Not that my work at the factory was particularly strenuous, the Council had laws forbidding that, but nevertheless I was usually tired by the end of a day spent monitoring the conveyor belt, checking that every product was perfect and discarding those with flaws. I felt the customary twinge of satisfied pride whenever I thought about the importance of my job. No shopper would have to buy flawed apples while I was on duty.

  I was thinking ahead to what I would cook for my master’s evening meal, when a panicked shout from the walkway below jarred me out of my musings. I glanced down. A woman was on the very edge of the walkway, watching helplessly as a small child spiralled downwards, ever faster between the walkways to the invisible depths below.

  I could see a large hovercar, continuing along the walkway, oblivious to the chaos it had caused behind.

  I frowned to myself as I continued on my journey; everyone knew the cars had right of way. Stupid woman, she should have kept better control of her child. I found my right hand was absently rubbing my left wrist, where my caste code was tattooed. I smiled. Mine was a red Hammer and Sickle, signifying industry and agriculture, the tattoo of the Worker’s caste.

  Beneath the all-powerful Council, our society was divided into six castes, Administrator, Soldier, Scientist, Artist, Worker and Service. Each caste had its immutable place in society and was marked by a symbol, tattooed on the wrist above the unique barcode which identified every individual. Administrators had a set of scales, perfectly balanced; Scientists had a stylised Atom; Artists a C inside a circle, protecting them and their work; Service a Crossed Knife and Fork.

  Only the Council had no tattoos.

  My master was of the prestigious Soldier class, one of those brave men and women who protected us from our enemies. His tattoo was a glorious blue sword. I loved to press my lips against it when we were in bed together and hear his breath quicken.

  I turned my thoughts back to the evening ahead. Perhaps, tonight, after I had cleared away the evening meal, he would ask for me. My heart beat a little faster in anticipation.

  “You may clear away now, Tom. I’m going to the gymnasium for an hour or so.” My master spoke absently, his mind already focussed on the gym, the tortuous exercises he would do to keep his body in prime condition. I bowed, and collected the dishes, respectfully backing out of the room as usual. I tried not to feel disappointed. After hours in the gymnasium, he would come home too tired for anything else tonight.

  I gave myself a little scold. I should be grateful that he had taken me into his home at all. I knew most Soldiers had at least one Service person to look after their homes, but some, like my master, preferred the more intelligent company of a Worker, male or female, for personal services. Many, in fact, had both.

  Maria, the woman who cleaned my master’s house, was middle-aged, dull and hard-working and we got on well enough for the most part. I knew I had no right to feel any sort of jealousy, but I felt a guilty relief to know my master was not interested in her, personally. He preferred men, like me. I knew he took other lovers from time to time, but I would have found it difficult to bear if I had to share the house with one of them.

  My master came home just before midnight and went straight to his room, having showered at the gymnasium. I helped him out of his clothes and into the large four-poster bed, drawing the curtains around it before I returned to my own small cot in the adjoining alcove.

  Tomorrow was Saturday, our day of rest. Perhaps, after we had been to the clinic, we could go out to see an entertainer somewhere or... I brought myself up sharply. There was no sense in daydreaming. Rik, my master, would do what he would do, and I would accommodate myself as usual. I found my right hand was absently rubbing my left wrist, over my caste code tattoo.

  I frowned, this discontent wasn’t like me. Perhaps I was getting run-down. I was sure I’d feel more myself after my visit to the Clinic tomorrow.

  Every Saturday, our small household would line up at the local Clinic to have our weekly dose of Shield, a cocktail of vitamins, anti-radiation medicine and biotics, administered via the socket in the back of our necks.

  This Saturday was no different. At least, at first.

  I placed my wrist over the scanner. The tattoo would tell the Doctor which precise formula of Shield to administer; Worker’s Shield for me, Soldier’s Shield for Rik and Service Shield for Maria. As I waited for the tube to be inserted into the socket behind my neck, I wondered why the Doctor was one of the few robots still doing the work that a well-trained human could do.

  Robots were for important things, for tasks which required minute precision and superior intelligence, for repairing machines. Machines maintained the dome which covered our city, protecting us from the radiation outside. Even the city itself was one vast construct, the buildings and walkways all merely the visible part of the whole. Machines were too valuable to waste on mundane tasks, so I supposed the Council had its reasons for not using a human doctor—no doubt something beyond my understanding.

  If there was one thing you could be sure of, it was that the Council did what was best for society as a whole. As their motto proudly declared, you could ‘Trust the Council’. I smiled as I repeated the motto under my breath, giving thanks once again that I was lucky enough to be part of this society.

  I wish I could say I felt a strange sensation or at least a premonition when the Shield was administered, but the truth is, I felt nothing out of the ordinary—at the time.

  It wasn’t until later that evening that I realised something was wrong.

  I found out later that someone had hacked my tattoo. Had, in fact, hacked all the Workers’ tattoos.

  But that evening, all I knew was that something was wrong. The first thing I noticed was an unaccustomed headache. I never got headaches, but that night I felt achy and irritable. Nothing seemed to go right.

  Rik had decided at the last minute to eat in, instead of going out to dinner as he had originally advised. Normally I would have been thrilled, glad to have him home, but tonight I couldn’t help wishing that he had given me a bit more notice. I had planned to spend the evening experimenting with a new recipe for apple pie, using some of the apples from work which would have gone to waste. But now I had to put that aside.

  Grumbling a bit to myself, I defrosted a steak, grilled it along with some fresh vegetables and took it in to him, only about five minutes later than his normal eating time. He ignored the plate of food, choosing to criticise my tardiness instead.

  “A whole five minutes late! I would have thought you were trained better than that by now, Tom.” He had a deep line between his brows. Perhaps he had a headache, too. I tried to be charitable.

  He turned to the food and began to pick his way through it, testing every portion as if a beetle or something equ
ally horrid was lurking inside.

  I stood by, waiting impatiently for him to finish. Usually I enjoyed this quiet time, but tonight I couldn’t help thinking of all the things I could be doing instead. My pastry was only half done; if I didn’t get back to it soon I would have to start the whole thing again.

  Finally, he finished and I started to clear away. A second later, his hand gripped my wrist, painfully hard. I froze as I realised I had not waited for him to give me permission. A faint rebellious thought flickered at the edge of my mind. He had finished the meal. I could see that plainly. Was I an idiot, that I had to wait for his order to clear the table?

  I was a Worker, not a Service man who needed simple, repeated instructions. I had an important job. I worked all day, every day except Saturdays; surely I should be trusted by now to do this simple thing?

  Rik must have seen something of this foreign resentment in my face, because he struck out at me. Without thinking, I brought up my arm to fend off the blow. For a long time it seemed, we stayed frozen in place, staring at each other. It wasn’t that he had never hit me before, he had, not often it is true, but—sometimes. But I had never defended myself, never, until that moment.

  I could see confusion in his face. If I hadn’t known he was a Soldier, I would have thought I saw fear there, too.

  “Don’t hit me again,” I stated between clenched teeth. I backed slowly away. My head was pounding by now, confused thoughts and feelings rushing through me, seemingly with no control. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” I turned and left before I could say anything else I would regret later.

  Why had I put up with this for so long? I was his lover, yes, but I wasn’t his slave! It felt rather as if I were awakening after a long sleep. How had I let myself become so—so passive? So subservient? When was the last time I had done any one single thing for myself? Automatically I picked up the pastry and began kneading it into a ball. I wasn’t asking for the moon—all I wanted was to make a fucking pie for fuck’s sake! I looked down at the ball of pastry which was now as hard and tight as my fist, and tossed it in the bin.