* * * *
“Are you crazy?” Geoff asked, pushing open the door to Marcus's condo.
“Do come in,” Marcus said. He was wearing a house toga and sandals, took a careful step back from the doorway. “Make yourself at home; I do, but then I live here.”
“Don't,” Geoff said, pointing a finger at Marcus. “Don't do that—that injured gravitas thing you do. This is important.” He paused for breath. Once through the door, Marcus's apartment might easily have been a villa; the tiled floor was inlaid with a mosaic of a dog and the words CAVE CANEM, while three triclinia covered with red silk cushions were arranged in a triangle. Steam was wafting from one of the inner doorways.
“I was about to have a bath,” Marcus said mildly. “Will you join me? The tepidarium is a bit small, but there's steam enough for two.”
“What are you trying to do? These kids, they don't have enough money to make them worth grifting.”
A tiny flicker of genuine concern crossed Marcus's face. “You spoke to Attius, I suppose?” he asked. Geoff nodded, and Marcus crossed to one of the triclinia and sat down. “Well. Have a seat, then, and we'll talk about it.”
Geoff moved to a triclinium and sat on it upright, as though it was a bench. “Talk, then.”
“Why don't you start, Geoffrey? Just what did he tell you?”
“He said—” Geoff paused, took a breath. “He thinks you can take him home.”
“Ah.” Marcus reached up to scratch at his jaw; he was, unusually, unshaven, and a shadow had covered his cheeks and chin. “Well. There it is, then.”
“Wait,” Geoff said after a moment had passed. “You're serious? The fissures don't work that way, you know that.”
“Do you?” Marcus asked. “Do you know it, truly? Or have you been told it?”
“It can't work that way. The paradox—”
“Spoken like a modern. Some of us have faith in our gods to bring us home.”
Geoff held up a hand. “Forget that for now, I need to understand this. You're going to take a bunch of kids back and then—what? Nuke Carthage, shoot Goths with machine guns?”
“Carthago delenda est,” Marcus said, not smiling. “You should know that. We don't need to bring guns or bombs; once we're home, we can build everything we need—enough, anyway. My boys have studied well for this.”
“Is your life really so bad? This city is full of opportunities—”
“Can you call it a city?” Marcus asked. “No gymnasium, no theater, no forum? Where is the life a Roman man should lead?”
“You really believe it,” Geoff said. “This whole thing, you really think you can do it.” He shook his head. “Just how do you expect to get into the Welcome Center?”
Marcus frowned, an actor's impression of sorrow. “For that part, regrettably, guns will be necessary. But there's no reason anyone has to be hurt, Geoffrey—”
“You idiot,” Geoff said, rising to his feet. “If there's even a chance that you're right, the guards will have orders to shoot to kill—they let one person through and all of history could be changed.”
“Regrettable, as I said. But I see no choice, and anyway Mars must always have his due.”
“You—I work at the Welcome Center, Marcus. I could get you in.” Geoff turned away. “You didn't even ask me.”
For a long time neither of them spoke, both watching each other's faces.
“You, Galfridius?” Marcus said at last.
Geoff took a step toward the door, paused. “I'm still a Roman.”
“You might have told the police.”
Turning back to face Marcus, Geoff said “I haven't, have I?”
Marcus shook his head. “Will you?”
“Are you—you're really going through with this?” Geoff asked. Marcus nodded. “What I do, it helps our people, here and now. I'm not chasing some crazy revenge fantasy.”
“I commend you for it. The great majority of our people benefit very much from what you do.”
Geoff began to turn away again, stopped. “I can get you in,” he said at last. “Nobody has to get hurt.”
“No,” Marcus said. “I can't let you. Your job—”
Geoff shook his head. “My job isn't going to get any easier if a dozen Romans get killed breaking into a Welcome Center. I still don't think this is going to work, but I can at least keep any blood from being shed.”
“Are you sure?” Marcus asked, cocking an eyebrow. “We can't afford to have anyone who isn't committed.”
“I'll do it—but you're not bringing any kids. That's my condition.”
Marcus regarded Geoff for a long moment, nodded slowly. “All right, then,” he said. “How soon can you get us in?”
* * * *
Between visiting the Aemiliani, the restaurant, the school and Marcus's apartment Geoff had been away from the office for most of two days; not an unusually long time, given the nature of his job, but long enough for a pile of message slips to accumulate on his desk. Flipping through them he found several from Fulvia Columella, on each of which both the PLEASE CALL and WILL CALL BACK boxes were checked. He picked up his phone and started dialing, stopped halfway through.
“Problem?” Wayne said.
Geoff shook his head as he turned in his chair. Wayne's bulky shape filled the doorway, all straight lines and skin so dark it shone; though about half the case officers were resettled Romans like Geoff, everyone from Wayne on up were moderns. “No, just a bit behind.”
Wayne did not move from the doorway, regarding Geoff with narrowed eyes. “You've been out a lot. Anything I should know about?”
“Nothing unusual,” Geoff said, shrugged. “Why do you ask?”
“Just checking on workload,” Wayne said, his tone suddenly casual. He absent-mindedly picked Geoff's stapler up off his desk, pulled it open. “OT budget's tapped for the quarter, you know.”
Geoff rolled his eyes, nodded. “I know, I know,” he said; then, as Wayne slowly turned to go, “Hey, Wayne—where's your family from?”
“Toronto.”
“No, you know—before that.”
“Sierra Leone, on my dad's side—his mother came over about forty years ago.” Wayne snapped the stapler shut. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” Geoff said. “You know much about it?”
Wayne shrugged. “My dad took me when I was about ten.”
“You ever think about going back?”
“Nah. Dad used to send money home, when he could.”
“How about you?” Geoff asked.
Wayne's brow furrowed into a slight frown. “I've got a family to take care of, Geoff. Wife and three kids—they've all got a life they wouldn't have if my grandma hadn't come here.”
“I know,” Geoff said.
“How about you?” Wayne asked. He dropped Geoff's stapler back onto his desk. “How come you don't have all that Roman shit like the other guys do?”
Geoff glanced back at his desk; the only personal item on it was the calendar illustrated with erotic frescoes from Pompeii, a gag gift from his colleagues. “Just not my thing, I guess.”
“Know what you mean,” Wayne said, turning to leave. “You need help with anything, let me know, okay?”
“Sure,” Geoff said. He watched Wayne go back out into the hall, counted to ten before turning back to his desk and the problem at hand. It wasn't enough just to get Marcus's people into the building; they had to be there when a fissure was open, when the Center would be at its busiest. And, of course, even if he got them into the reception room there would be no way to get them back out again other than through the fissure. If Marcus was wrong...
Geoff's phone rang, the call display panel showing Fulvia's number. He briefly considered pretending to be out, keyed the call to go through to his wire. “Hello, Mrs. Columella,” he said.
“Galfridius, it's Fulvia Columella.” Some technologies seemed forever obscure to the Romans that had come as adults, call display among them. “Did you to my son talk?”
“Yes.”
“Well, is Attius in trouble?”
“I don't think so,” Geoff said carefully.
“It's only I haven't seen him,” Fulvia said, “not since the day you were here. Did he to you anything say, about somewhere going?”
Geoff shut his eyes. “I'm sorry, Fulvia,” he said. “I saw him yesterday at school, but he didn't say anything about not coming home.” Not exactly, anyway. “Does he ever stay over at a friend's, maybe?”
“I phoned.”
“I'll look into it,” Geoff said. “Was there anything else you wanted?”
There was a moment's pause before Fulvia said “No. No, Galfridius, thank you.”
Geoff nodded—the wire would transmit it—hung up. He should call the school, he thought, find out if Attius had been in class. The thought of school started his mind down a suddenly obvious path, and he opened the second drawer of his desk and took out the emergency handbook. He had been thinking like a bureaucrat, when he should have been thinking like a student: his own high school had been just as paranoid as Attius's, but there had been one thing sure to throw it into chaos.
* * * *
The warning tone sounded over the PA as the sensors detected a fissure forming. Geoff, sitting in his office, was on call: if his name came up his pager would let him know to go to the reception room. Without waiting for that, he picked up the phone and dialed.
“It's on,” he said as soon as the line picked up. “Twenty minutes.”
Hanging up, Geoff got up from his desk and stepped into the hall. There was no visible increase in activity, but he knew that forces were mustering to keep the prefugees that would soon arrive in the reception room—and, more importantly to him, keep anyone else out: guards were on alert, doors inside and out automatically locked. He strolled casually to the southwest corner of the building, where most of the offices were unoccupied, checked his watch. When fifteen minutes had passed he reached up and pulled the fire alarm, and a piercing wail filled the air.
Now the halls were busy: it had been months since the last fire drill, and few people remembered where their fire exit was. Geoff heard frantic steps echoing as the inhabitants fled. Only a few passed by him on their way out, and they were too busy to notice he was not following; once the halls were quiet Geoff went to the reception room. The most sensitive place in the building, its doors automatically stayed locked even when the alarm sounded—except when a fissure had formed; nobody wanted prefugees trapped in a sealed room during a fire.
Marcus reached the door just a minute after Geoff did. A half-dozen young men followed him, each in his teens or early twenties, all dressed in jacket, shirt and jeans. Geoff scanned their faces, felt only a little surprise at seeing Attius among them.
“I said no kids,” he said to Marcus. “We had a deal.”
“These are my soldiers,” Marcus said. “We couldn't go ahead otherwise.” He put his hands on his hips, looked to left and right. “And you, Geoffrey, did you betray me? Are the police waiting for us in there?”
“No,” Geoff said.
“Then all our games are played, and we know who is the victor.” Marcus cocked an eyebrow, awaiting a challenge.
“What are you waiting for?” one of Marcus's followers said. “Let's go.”
Geoff looked at him, then at the other young men, found he recognized them all: each was a success story like Attius, the ones that had managed to overcome the poverty and dislocation. Each one was a boy without a father; each, he now saw, was a boy whom he had failed. “Are you all sure about this?” Geoff asked the boy who had spoken—Gallienus, he was called—moving slightly to stand in front of the doorway. “You know, even if you can go through, we get prefugees from all different periods. You might wind up anytime ab urbe conditum.”
“We'll manage,” Marcus said.
Not looking at him, Geoff spoke to Attius. “You won't have a family, you know, or land of your own. You'll be all alone, and penniless.”
Attius looked doubtful for a moment, while Gallienus took a step toward the door. “Not for long,” he said. “With everything we know about chemistry, and mining—”
“And everyone knows the Romans loved change,” Geoff said. “That's why they invented the steam engine.” A few of the boys looked to one another, brows furrowed. “And the compass, and the printing press. They just loved new ideas.”
“He's just stalling,” Marcus said. “Upset at being tricked, so he hopes to keep us here ‘til the police arrive.” He took a step closer, so that he and Geoff were nose to nose. “Step aside, Geoffrey.”
Geoff shrugged, moved aside to let the others pass through the doorway and then followed them into the reception room. Inside the light was starting to flicker as the fissure opened; after a moment four dark figures appeared within, three short and one tall.
“Now,” Marcus said.
Holding up a hand, Geoff said, “Just a minute. Why don't you see where it is you're headed?”
The figures in the fissure were fully visible now: a woman and three children, each dirty, disheveled and gaunt with starvation. The eldest was a boy of about ten or eight; he wore a gladius at his belt, so oversized on him that the tip grazed the floor. When he saw the group awaiting them his hand went to the hilt.
“It's all right, little boy,” Marcus said, then turned back to the others. “Get through, while it's still open.”
The boy looked up at the woman behind him, then moved to stand in front of her and drew his sword with both hands. “Don't worry, mother,” he said in deeply archaic Latin. “I'll protect you.”
Marcus's followers stood still, uncertain. Attius looked to Marcus, then to Geoffrey. “What do we do?” he asked.
The light of the fissure was starting to dim, and Marcus took a step forward. “He's just a boy,” he said, reaching out to seize the sword.
“Not anymore,” Geoff said quietly. “He has to take care of his mother now, and his sisters. He's a man.” He moved behind Marcus, took hold of his wrist and drew it away from the boy's sword. Then, moving Marcus out of the way, he crouched to speak with the boy at eye-level. “Welcome, friend,” he said in the same early Latin the boy had spoken. “What is your name?”
The boy glanced over his shoulder, to where the light of the fissure was flickering. “My name is Quintus Rufinus,” he said, working hard to deepen his voice. “Tell me where we are.”
“It is a safe place,” Geoff said, “far from the dangers you have fled. You must make a choice, though: if you stay here you can never go back.” He straightened up to his full height. “Would you like to stay?”
Quintus gripped the hilt of his sword with both hands, looked back at his mother; the fading light flickered on her face as the boy turned back to Geoff, nodded twice.
* * * *
Geoff's hand paused over the Pompeii calendar, finally picked it up and dropped it into the box containing the few contents of his desk. He took a breath, turned as he sensed Wayne's bulk filling the doorway.
“You leaving, then?” Wayne said, clearing his throat.
“Yeah. Sorry for the short notice.”
“Don't worry about me. Where you going?”
“I don't know yet.” Geoff shrugged. “I just know these kids need something the Center can't give them, and right now they're getting it from the wrong place.”
Wayne nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “This wouldn't have anything to do with that mess the other day, would it?”
Turning back to his box, Geoff took a breath. “Why?” he asked. “Did you talk to the police about it?”
“Didn't see any reason to—just an unscheduled fire drill, right?”
“Right.” Geoff stood still for a moment, turned around once more. “Wayne—could you go through the fissure? Go back?”
Wayne looked at him for a long time before finally speaking. “Would it make a difference?” he asked. “Would you go, if you could?”
Geoff shook his head. “No,” he sa
id. “I've got a family to take care of.”
Copyright (c) 2008 Matthew Johnson
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* * *
Poetry: CHILDREN
by P M F Johnson
Every dusty village has its roadway
out, and not one blue-limned talisman
that's hung on twine inside the door for health,
protection or abundance can prevent
the exodus of blood, the empty chair
pushed to the wall, the dog's small, potent sighs.
You feel relief when children leave, and guilt
because of that, regret their raising was
accomplished while accompanied with so
much failure. But they're gone. No charm could hold
them back without a twist of pain and rage.
You miss them, so you send along one tiny,
hope-forged amulet that's fired with prayers,
a delicate, complex design etched on
a bracelet, made to wish that they'll be safe.
Such magic as you have, perhaps forgotten
on some shelf, the best that you could do,
you gave. It's on to all those little things
you always dreamed of doing. Your own life.
—
—P M F Johnson
Copyright (c) 2008 P M F Johnson
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* * *
Short Story: THE ADVOCATE
by Barry B. Longyear
Barry B Longyear, author of “Enemy Mine” (September 1979), is still the only author to win the Nebula, Hugo, and John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in the same year. After a very long absence, we are delighted to welcome him back to the pages of Asimov's with “The Advocate.” The author tells us this story follows his philosophy of “'writing jujitsu,’ which involves taking all those things preventing one's writing and turning them into stories. Using a Palm TE2, this tale was written almost entirely in hospitals and doctors’ waiting rooms."
The Advocate
The point of this exercise, Dr. Hunter, is to relieve me of the eternal burdens of appointments, health plans, mind-numbing medications, nitrous-inhaling physicians, and malpractice-paralyzed neurologists so that I may do this thing I do: Write Stories. I've seen my last needle, spent my last hour in a waiting room, and explained for the absolutely last time how important it is for a writer to have a working brain and that, without such keeping the remainder at temperature is a medical, not literary, ambition. From now on let Craig deal with all of that, for that is what I have named my imprint bio. I have copied my engrams into a Biotronics stock meat suit, and he is fully authorized to advocate on my behalf concerning health matters. One of his chores is to keep track of me and pass on anything significant to the medical community, such as it is. I'm keeping a record of sorts to aid in this endeavor. It is my earnest hope that a cure to my ailment can be found—Craig will do all I could do to aid in that quest. If it will be one big waste of time, though, I won't be the one who is wasting it. I'll be writing.
Asimov's SF, April-May 2008 Page 24