Time Travel Omnibus Volume 1

by Anthology

  Concurrent to the exultant celebrations, churches of the Baronist faith held solemn ceremonies. Prayers were mumbled and congregations sat in meditative recognition of Saul Baron’s sacrifice. “If Saul Baron were here today,” declared Caleb Daniels, the president of the United States, in an impassioned speech to the nation. “He would be proud of the world we have made.”

  The sobs tore through Saul’s body without warning. His body shook in almost-convulsions as he saw the joy in the faces on the screen. The screen might as well have shown fictional images. That world had never been real to Saul. From his birth he had always been an exile from it. He had never done any of the things people took for granted and all because of his name. His stupid hosanna name.

  The weight of it had never hit him before; he had never let it. He had always forced himself to accept. This is how it is. This is how it must be. Nothing I can do or say could change a thing. Now, as he watched the world celebrate, the dam with which he had held back his resentment, anger and loneliness crumbled. He wailed without inhibition, open mouthed like a babe in a cradle. His throat split and his frame shook.

  If I had been born with a different name? If I had known my parents? If I had gone to a normal school? If I had only? These words were the language of his wails and the hungry silence devoured them. He lay on his bed like a broken toy, still staring at the screen. Looking at it tortured him but he could not tear his eyes away.

  The footage of Saul Baron’s appearance at the 2032 UN summit was played. The Secretary General was in the middle of a speech when he was interrupted by a lightening bright flash and a sharp crackle. The UN Security Guards whipped into action immediately, approaching the man who had materialized in the centre of the room with weapons drawn. He lifted a tiny mirror like object in the air and rotated it. The soldiers’ bodies were petrified in mid attack. “Do not be afraid,” he said. “I am from the future, and I have come from a time ravaged by war and suffering.”

  Saul had never watched the footage. He had always known he could ask Caitlin to bring it to him but he never had. He had never wanted to watch it even though if asked, he would not be able to say why. Now he knew the reason. When Saul heard people praising his name and saw their awe and reverence, on some level, in some tiny corner of his mind, he had always wondered if that potential for greatness lied untapped within him. They all believed it so completely. Maybe they are right, he sometimes fantasized. Maybe there is a secret font of genius hidden within me that could be liberated at any random moment?

  As he watched the doppelganger of himself address the UN, he felt that unspoken dream die. This man was nothing like him. Their facial resemblance was the extent of it and even that was warped. The Saul Baron on the screen’s looked more handsome, more confident, and more real. He stood tall and his voice reverberated with sonorous music. He was a giant. A man to be worshiped. “You all have a responsibility to humanity that you scorn with your petty squabbles,” the Saul Baron on the screen accused the delegates. “The conflict that destroyed the future I come from had its beginnings in the decisions made here. You,” the Saul Baron from the future pointed at the King of Thailand. “Even though you have been begged and pressured to give the Mon people self determination, you have never even entertained the idea or tried to give them more equal footing. This oppressive decision and the slaughters you have condoned are tiny pebbles which will ripple and lead to global war. You,” now the Saul Baron from the future addressed the president of America.

  One by one he addressed every delegate in the room telling them how decisions they had made, nuclear programs they refused to disarm, aid they used to give, and tiny disagreements that they dismissed as irrelevant would culminate in genocide. Billions would die and the survivors were doomed. His words were a testimony filled with tragedy but motivated by hope. “You can change the future.”

  Saul watched the future avatar of himself. He hated him. He hated the man’s genius, his eloquence and the beautiful nobility of his sacrifice. Saul’s eyes were dry now but the desolation he felt was deeper than it had been when he was crying. He realised something with an icy certainty. If he died today, it would change nothing. No-one would even feel his passing for more than a split second. Not Caitlin, not Gabrielle. No one.

  He turned off the vid-screen. Even with the screen off he could still see the parades and fireworks lucidly. He could still see the face of Saul Baron—he could no longer think of it as his face. This is not my face. This is not my body. I am not Saul Baron. I never was.

  XXIII

  October 13 2082. The day after the day the world should have ended. Caitlin came to see Saul and immediately she could see the pain in his eyes. “I’m sorry. There was no way I could make them allow you out for the celebrations.”

  Saul laughed and the sound was strangled and manic. “All my life, I’ve been pushed around here and there and imprisoned in a thousand different ways because I am Saul Baron. Of course I could not leave.”

  Caitlin’s worry multiplied. She had seen the anguish that eclipsed Saul before, usually in soldiers who killed themselves a few days later. “Maybe I could arrange for you to be taken into Ohio. It’s the nearest city and if we disguise you . . .”

  Saul mumbled something and she asked him to repeat himself.”I have no regrets,” he said. “Everybody has regrets. Things they wish they could go back in time and undo. I don’t because my decisions haven’t made any difference at all. All I’ve done for years is look at equations and theories I can’t understand in exchange for nothing. I’m like a beast in a pen. You feed me, you let me sleep. That is all.”

  Caitlin suppressed the words which wanted to come from her lips. Her instinct was to speak the anaesthetizing lies she had told him every time he despaired. She just waited.

  Saul did not say anything for a long time. He just stared at her, his accusing gaze boring into her. At last, he spoke. “I’m tired of doing nothing Caitlin. I have no secret genius or any useful skills, but I thought about it and I do have one thing. My name. The world is still full of causes that need support. Surely if I could lend my name to them, if I could represent them and raise money for . . .” Even as he formulated the request he knew they would not let him go.

  Caitlin started to speak but Saul interrupted her. “Just leave me alone. Just go.”

  He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

  Caitlin obeyed his request.

  XXIV

  Guilt was always part of the job. That was a reality Caitlin had accepted long ago. There were times when she had been complicit in the gunning down of civilians: the broken corpses of dead children haunted her dreams. She had told a thousand lies for three different administrations and personally organised countless missions that made her nauseous. After a while the dead blended into each other and the guilt became blurry. In her nightmares the faces of the dead were indistinct.

  She saw the posters of alternate Saul Baron everywhere she looked that morning. That Saul Baron had come from a ravaged world that was dying. You would think that the expression in his face would be more worn away than the Saul Baron who she had left lying inert on a crocheted blanket.

  Saul Baron . . .

  “I do have one thing.” Saul had said. “My name.”

  XXV

  Caitlin returned to Saul’s room in the early evening.

  “Saul,” she said. “You may be right.”

  XXVI

  Caleb Daniels was the 57th president of the United States. He was not an idealist. He had aspired to the office for one reason. Power.

  If asked, ‘What is power?’ ‘What do you want if for?’ or a number of other like-minded questions he would not have had a clear answer. He just knew he wanted it. The universe’s sense of irony had therefore seen fit to give him what he desired but to ensure he was the least powerful president in decades. The Socialist party had the senate majority and he had only come into power through a coalition. His every decision had to be condoned by a bevy of other min
ds as consumed as he was by self-interest.

  The last 4 years had been a flicker. As the new elections came closer Caleb knew he had no chance. All four of the other candidates who were still in the race were well ahead of him in every poll. He would just be a hiccup in the history books.

  Among his many appointments on November 2nd, 2082 was Caitlin Bartner, ex-deputy director of the AFA. She came into his office and said a single sentence. “How would you like to be re-elected?”

  XXVII

  “It’s a bit of a deal with the devil,” Caitlin explained to Saul. “He’s the worst of the candidates but he’s the one in power right now. Marcus Santiago would be a much better president but Caleb needs your help and has the influence to change your circumstances. All it will be is some photographs with him and a few public appearances saying you support him. For the political support of Saul Baron, he would agree to almost anything.”

  “How bad is he?”

  “Terrible. He’s running the country into the ground. I’ll probably feel very guilty after we get him re-elected. But since your grand master plan is to use your name for charities and lofty ‘save the world’ stuff I think that’ll balance out the bad karma points.”

  Sometimes Caitlin’s sense of humour still bewildered Saul but he laughed anyway, mostly because hers was so contagious.

  XXVIII

  “How would you like to be re-elected?”

  “Are you serious?” President Caleb Daniels replied.

  “You must know that we have Saul Baron holed up on a military base in the hope he’s going to help us build a time machine. Surely you can think of more practical uses for him.”

  XXIX

  Caleb Daniels was re-elected in a landslide vote.

  XXX

  On the day the ballots were counted Saul and Caitlin sat together in the White House. There had been a banquet: roasted meats, spiced potatoes, eggplant salad, and figs.

  “I think food is what I love best,” Saul told her.

  “Me too. Look at me.” She pointed proudly at her fleshy form.

  The White House Chief of Staff dawdled over to them. He had a chunk of fruit skewered on a toothpick between his thumb and forefinger. He boasted about how dramatic the president’s victory had been and then stumbled away.

  The numbers frightened Saul. “I didn’t expect my support to change things that much.”

  Caitlin nodded. “Of course it did, and you’re just getting started.”

  “You’ll help me right?” Saul asked. “You’ll help me find the right people to . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Save puppies and the like. Of course. I’ll be Saint Caitlin Bartner right next to you most holy messiah. Try this.” She shoved a block of liquorice into his palm.

  He put it into his mouth and enjoyed the bittersweet tang. Yet another taste Caitlin had introduced him to. He closed his eyes and swallowed.

  “Saul!” He heard a voice scream behind him.

  He turned to be nearly knocked over as Gabrielle grabbed him in a tight hug.

  “Oh, didn’t I mention?” said Caitlin between mouthfuls. “I invited her.”

  Epilogue

  The old woman was woken up by the orderly. “You have a guest,” he said and then he helped her get dressed. When she was ready he placed her in the rusty wheelchair. The wheels whined and clattered as he pushed her down the barren corridors of the prison. He whistled. Toowee toowee. He was always whistling. Whistlin’ Sam they sometimes called him.

  The old woman recognised the tune he was whistling. She couldn’t place it but it reminded her of long ago. It made her sad but she smiled. It was a smile of cracked lips and teeth like marble tombstones.

  Toowee toowee.

  Outside, Saul waited for her. He was alone which was a rare thing. Usually he had guards, advisors or his wife with him at all times. “Spent so many years alone, now I can’t stand it,” he’d admitted to a coterie of school teacher’s he’d given a speech to. They had admired his humility.

  He heard the whistling and he looked up. He had been looking down at the flowers. The prison garden was a carpet of blues, oranges and light greens. Butterflies darted to and fro; the blend of scents was heady. The Warden was very proud of the garden, and rightly so.

  “I’ll leave you two to your own devices,” said the orderly. “I’ll be right there.” His little finger indicated a bench fifty feet away. A strange finger to point with, Saul remarked. There was probably a story behind this little quirk. Later he would ask. He liked to find out the answers to all the tiny mysteries he encountered.

  He watched the orderly walk away and then looked at Angelica. She looked impossibly old, her wrinkles were as deep as scars. He looked down at her damaged legs.

  “I heard you jumped,” he said. “Tried to kill yourself after the world didn’t end. Odd way of celebrating.”

  She was staring at him and enjoying the sound of his voice. Words had long ago ceased to have meaning for her. Some voices soothed her and others terrified her. Some voices made her happy and his was one of those. It made her smile for the same reason that the orderlies whistling had.

  “I wanted you to cry,” Saul said. “I wanted you to apologise for the things you had done. I wanted to scream at you. You have no idea how many times I have imagined this conversation.”

  A butterfly drawn by a gleam landed on the armrest of Angelica’s wheelchair.

  “This is the last thing I imagined.”

  She was still smiling at him. Faces were like words too. She never saw a face and matched it with a name. Faces were just clusters of geometric shapes to her. Saul’s face made her smile even more than the sound of his voice. It made her feel safe.

  He reached out a hand and touched the blotchy surface of her forehead. “I guess this is better,” he whispered.

  Whistlin’ Sam rushed over. “She doesn’t like when people touch her,” he began but then he saw her smiling face. “Guess she likes you,” he said.

  “Guess she does at that,” Saul replied. He stayed for two more hours. He wheeled her through the garden, told her stories about the world outside and whistled along with Sam.

  Toowee. Toowee.

  BY OUR ACTIONS

  Michael A. Stackpole

  The Timeshares helicopter thundered around the mountain. This has to be bad. The mantislike air-ship unsteadily lowered itself into the meadow. The pine trees downslope of the cabin hid it, but the fluttering roar of the copter’s rotors echoed from the mountains. Men shouted below and he caught the flash of the first of Jacobsen’s phalanx coming up the crooked path.

  Logically he should have put the ax down and readied himself to greet his old employer’s envoy, but he couldn’t. Jacobsen had violated the promise to leave him in peace. Doesn’t matter. The answer’s no.

  Perry gripped the ax tightly to stop his body’s trembling.

  Then Jacobsen himself appeared, still dressed for the heart of the city. Perry’s mouth went dry. It can’t be.

  Jacobsen adjusted his tie—college striping, full Windsor knot—and played at brushing a spot of mud from his black suit’s knee. He smiled, making it carry up into his eyes, and made eye contact. He extended his hand several muddy steps shy of level.

  “It’s good to see you again, Perry. The mountain air has done you well, old friend.”

  Perry stared at the proffered hand as if it was a snake. His own right hand bore the ax. He swung it up, then rested it on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t be here. Please go.”

  “Give me five minutes, Perry.” Jacobsen glanced back over his shoulder as his hand drifted down. “On the copter.”

  Perry shook his head. “Whatever you need, I can’t do it. Won’t.”

  “I need to convince you otherwise.”

  “You can’t.”

  The white-haired man’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve lost a leper.”

  The shakes hit Perry so hard he dropped the ax. “You lost . . . how could you? You promised!”

 
“Sometimes promises have to be broken.”

  “And this one broke time?” Perry closed his eyes, then muttered a prayer. He used the time afforded him in picking up the ax and burying it in the chopping block to get control of himself. He shifted fear into anger, his eyes opening into narrow slits. He spitted Jacobsen with a stare. “How could you have been so stupid?”

  Jacobsen turned, starting back down toward the helicopter. “I will brief you en route. We really have no time to waste.”

  “Funny to hear that from you.” Back in the early days of Timeshares that had been a running joke. They had all the time in the world since they could go anywhere, do anything. Perry might have laughed out of habit, but Jacobsen’s flat delivery underscored the urgency of the situation.

  Perry swung into the copter easily enough—old habits never really die, just lay dormant. The chemical scent of aviation fuel filled his head, adding to his queasiness. The rolling clack of doors closing, the thrumming thunder filling the cabin, all things that reminded him of days he’d hoped to forget.

  A bodyguard handed him a helmet and plugged him into the communications system. The helmet selected the executive frequency as Perry strapped in. As if the click of Perry’s restraints had freed the craft from gravity’s grip, the helicopter leaped into the air with a lurch. It left Perry’s stomach on the ground.

  Jacobsen, belted onto the bench beside him, passed him a tablet reader. “Everything you need to know is in there.”

  Perry shook his head. “Why did you do it?”

  Jacobsen’s gaze hardened as he reached over and turned the tablet on, then tapped open an app. A picture appeared. “That is Senator Harrison Smelton, religious conservative from north Texas. He chairs the Senate select committee on scientific research. He came to us and suggested that he was going to hold hearings into exactly what we do at Timeshares.”