by Anthology
Apparently in this wave Truman had dropped an atomic bomb on the Chinese army when they began their invasion of Korea thereby ending the war. MacArthur and Eisenhower had clashed over the Republican nomination with Ike finally getting the nod on the third ballot. Had Stevenson embraced Truman’s bombing and promised more of the same he might have won but, true to his principals, Adalai had renounced “Nuclear Diplomacy” and had lost in one of the closest elections in the last fifty years.
Mark had been supplied with a thousand names and bank account numbers, identities of organizations and individuals throughout the Twentieth Century together with details of various winning lottery numbers, sporting events and stock market fluctuations plus a handful of gold coins. Luckily the field was strong enough to encompass his clothes and a few personal effects. Mark often fantasized about how much more difficult his life would have been had he been forced to arrive naked like the time travelers in the Terminator movies.
Mark had visited this city in several other times over the last three hundred and six years and had established bank accounts under various names. Sometimes, when subjective reality had not diverged too much from that of an earlier wave, the banks and the accounts were still there, waiting for him. Sometimes not. Twice the banks had failed and once the records had been lost in a spectacular fire. In another time the account numbers no longer matched, a divergence in management or accounting systems having rendered his savings from another time wave discongruent, a word Maria Salazar had coined, with that of his current reality.
Mark shoved the paper back into the trash and spun in a careful circle. If things had not changed too much, the Lincoln Savings Bank should be down the street that way, just past the massive Sibley’s Department Store. With any luck, in a few hours he would have enough cash to rent a room and buy a set of clothes. And then? As it did every time he returned here, his mind filled with thoughts of Linda. How old would she be now? Nineteen? Too young? He pushed her memory from his brain and set off down the street in the early morning light.
“Evening, Mr. Williams,” the cashier muttered, not looking up. He gave her a little nod and held out three one-dollar bills. He had established a routine as bland and boring and unremarkable as he could possibly make it. A modest apartment within walking distance of the downtown stores and restaurants. Plain dark clothes, modest tastes. Three nights a week he had dinner at Swenson’s Smorgasbord Restaurant on State Street where he could get a reasonable variety of food without raising any comments or forming any relationships except that now the cashier had learned his name and he wondered if he shouldn’t find some other place to eat dinner.
He only ate once a day and he didn’t want to be bothered with prying questions from overly-friendly employees. Still, the cashier didn’t seem as if she had any real interest in talking with him. He decided to wait and see if she tried to expand their interaction.
He had just finished cutting off a square of meatloaf with the side of his fork when he caught the man at the corner table looking at him. Instantly the man looked away. Caucasian, barrel-chested, with thick arms and a mop of black hair, the stranger quickly stared down at his plate but it seemed to Mark that he still watched from the corners of his eyes. Mechanically, Mark ate his meatloaf and mashed potatoes, increasingly hunching over his plate like a dog trying to protect a bone. Normally he was in and out of the place in half an hour but he wanted the stranger to leave first so he stalled, nudging a piece of canned peaches like a little snowplow back and forth through the melted remains of the Jell-O.
With a screech the stranger pushed his chair away from the small table, gave Mark a flickering glance, and bustled out the door. Mark dawdled for a few seconds longer then also stood up to leave.
It was now dusk, the thick amber light shading into purple at the top of the sky. A few pedestrians paced the sidewalks but Mark saw no trace of the barrel-chested man. Hesitantly, he turned left and ambled toward the river. Ahead of him the sidewalk was empty. A Mack bus spewing diesel smoke ground past in a whine of gears.
“Hey!” a voice whispered from the alley.
The pale face of the barrel-chested man glowed in the shadows five feet back from the street. Mark froze. Had he been targeted for a robbery? Had someone discovered that he had money? Should he run? Did the barrel-chested man know where he lived? Had he followed Mark to the restaurant?
“I won’t hurt you,” the man whispered, holding up two pale, empty hands. He made an excited “come here” gesture and took a step deeper into the shadows. Mark paused a moment longer then cautiously advanced a few feet.
“What do you want?” Mark asked in a tone which surprised him, cold and flat and vaguely dangerous.
“I recognized you right off,” the stranger said. He held his hands in front of him, palms up. “They call me Rev.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We’re two of a kind, we are. How much longer do you have?”
“What?”
“That woman called you Mark. Is that your name, Mark?”
After a long pause Mark nodded and took an uncertain step forward.
“I’ve got a hundred and nineteen years left on my clock. How about you?”
“What?” Mark hissed, his heart going cold and his fingers clenching into fists.
“The Ants,” Rev said, his lips splitting in a vicious smile. “They told you about the time waves, right?”
Mark didn’t trust himself to speak.
“You didn’t think yours was the only time-wave that built guys like us, did you? Mostly we only go back a few decades from our own wave so there’s not too much overlap. Plus we keep a pretty low profile. You’re only the second one of us I’ve seen. I didn’t talk to the first guy. I just gave him a pass. But it’s lonely sometimes. I know it’s against the rules but when I saw you I could tell you were having a hard time and I decided to say something . . . So, how long do you still have to go?”
Mark peered at the man then hurriedly checked the alley and the fire escapes clinging to the brick walls above. His mouth was dry and he struggled to swallow.
“Six ninety-four,” he rasped.
“Wow, no wonder you’re wonky. When I was at six ninety-four I was a basket case, all the way down to about five hundred. Something about crossing the halfway point seems to make it easier. Once I get past one-hundred I’ll be in the home stretch. It’s all downhill from there.”
For an instant Mark thought of the five hundred and four years remaining before he would be on the downside of one-hundred.
“When your time is up, do you think you’ll be able to do it, really start up the human race again?”
“Why not? It’s all in here, isn’t it?” Rev tapped his chest. “You want to go someplace and talk?”
The thought of the two of them being together in public chilled Mark to the bone and he hurriedly shook his head.
“Yeah, that’s what I would have said at six ninety-four. I guess getting close to one-hundred’s made me reckless . . . How many times have you been married?”
“I—twice,” Mark croaked.
“I know, it’s tough, watching them get old and die, or having to leave them, just runnig off in the middle of the night when you still, well, you know, have feelings for them. Sudden death, take my advice, that’s how to handle it.”
“What?”
“Car crashes are the best. Automobiles are death traps in this period anyway and they burn up all the evidence. They won’t have DNA for forty, fifty years so you’re safe on the ID. Just make sure that you knock out the corpse’s teeth before you wreck the car so they can’t get a dental match.”
“Are you saying that you’ve killed someone and—”
“Jeez!” Rev hissed, holding up his hands. “I’m not a monster. Christ, no! Just find some homeless guy dead in an alley or bribe the guy who makes the morgue pickups for the John Does. In this era they’re making, what, a hundred-fifty a month. For five hundred bucks they’ll
give you all the bodies you want. Just get one about the right age, knock out the teeth, shove him behind the wheel of your car and run it into a big tree then throw in a match. Instant widow. No muss, no fuss. She’s left with fond memories and a fat life insurance policy.”
Mark looked like he was going to be sick.
“It’s the best thing, really. She’ll have a nest egg to get her through life and she’ll find a nice, normal guy to settle down with, have a couple of kids. Every now and then she’ll take out some old picture of you and her on your honeymoon or something and tell people, ‘This was my first husband, Mark. He was a wonderful man. He died in a car crash only a few years after we were married. I’ll never forget him.’ See, happy ending all the way around, a lot happier than if you’d just ran off in the middle of the night or hung around while she got old and bent and senile.”
“You’ve done this?” Mark asked, though he already knew the answer.
“I know it sounds bad, but after the first few times . . .” Rev shrugged.
“Did you ever have any kids?”
“What?”
“Your wives, did any of them get pregnant?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Guys like us, we can’t, you know . . . there’s no way.”
“We’re sterile?”
“Sterile? Jesus, you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Know that we’re not human. Christ, they built us! Or grew us. Or designed us.”
Was he insane? Mark wondered. Had all those years skipping across time addled his brain? Involuntarily, he took a step back.
Rev’s expression softened. “Jeez, I guess they never told you. They can’t send a human, a regular human, across Time. They designed us special, filled our guts with wires and machines and took out half our organs to make enough room. They used a protein compiler to specially design our DNA. Didn’t they tell you never to let some witch-doctor X-ray you?”
“They said . . . they said the X-rays would show the Time Skip implants that—”
Rev laughed. “It would show a hell of a lot more than that. Why do you think you only need to eat once a day? Why do you think you have to find a chemical supply house and inject yourself with a cocktail that would kill any normal human? Where do you think our names came from?”
“Our names?”
Again, Rev laughed though it had a bitter edge.
“Mine’s Rev, for my model number, Rev. Sixteen. The first fifteen crapped-out and died. Your name’s Mark so I guessing . . . Mark Eleven? Mark Nineteen? I guess you wouldn’t know.” Rev stepped forward and gently patted Mark’s shoulder. “I guess they figured it would be easier if you didn’t know . . . Anyway,” he continued, forcing a smile, “don’t worry about kids. We’re shooting blanks. We were designed that way.”
A couple walked past the alley and glanced inside. Hurriedly, Rev pulled Mark into the shadows.
“We’d better get out of here before some cop sees us and thinks, you know. We don’t need that kind of trouble.”
Rev patted Mark’s shoulder again and turned toward the street.
“Ah, wait. We need to talk. I have questions. I—”
“I don’t thinks so. My stopping you this way probably wasn’t a good idea, but, well, I just made my wife down in Philly a widow and I was feeling a little lonely. I guess I need to punch-out for a while. Maybe I’ll come back in the nineties. Except they’ve got DNA there. Yeah, the eighties it is.” Rev gave Mark a long look and extended his hand. “Okay, then,” he said, turning away then suddenly pausing. “You do know about the hunters, right?”
“Hunters?”
“Shit! In a few of the futures, when the Ants started dying off they figured out what we had done. Who says a hive society is stupid? Each of those Ant futures sent a guy back to find the refugee from their own time line and make sure he never made it back home.”
“But if the Ants in one time wave found out about what we did, why didn’t they just go back and warn the Ants in the earlier time waves before the genetic corruption took hold there?”
“You already know the answer to that . . . They can’t go into their own future or their own past. Sure they could warn Ants in other time lines but that goes against their instincts.”
“Why?”
“Hive mentality,” Rev said, shrugging. “Other hives with other Queens are as much an enemy to the Ants of your time and mine as humans are. No, the most they’re willing to do is try to kill us so that even if they lose, the humans won’t win.”
“I guess we should be grateful for small favors,” Mark said with a shiver. “So, there are hunters out there looking for us?”
“A few. They have a lot of time to cover and we’re pretty hard to find. Do you have a weapon?”
“A gun? No, of course not.”
“Get a knife, a real sharp knife, about six inches long. Hide it on the back of your leg.” Rev lifted his cuff and pulled out a dagger in a blurring sweep. “A quick slash across the throat is the best. They bleed just like we do. Be sure to cut the head clean off, though, otherwise you can’t be certain of killing them. They replace lost blood really fast.”
Hypnotized, Mark stared at the blade.
“Are you going to . . .?”
“What? No, I’m not a hunter.” With a practiced motion Rev slipped the dagger back into its ankle sheath.
“But you thought I might be,” Mark said with sudden insight.
Rev canted his head to one side and gave Mark a crooked smile.
“You always want to check. Those things are dangerous. If we don’t get them, they might get us.” Rev gave Mark a little wave and turned back to the street.
“Wait! How do you know, how did you know that I wasn’t . . . one of them?”
“Oh, that part’s easy. I knew you were okay right off.”
“How?”
“Those things are hunters. They love their work. And they’re never, ever lonely.” Rev’s teeth flashed in a final lopsided smile and seconds later he was gone.
Mark shuffled to back to the sidewalk and, half in a daze, wandered down the river. Night had fallen and a full moon reflected from the water. Mark stared at the ripples then up at the blanket of stars and thought of Linda. In this time she might be different, would be different, but most of her would be the same. How long could they have? Five years certainly. Ten? Maybe even fifteen before he would have to find a morgue attendant susceptible to a bribe.
Fifteen years. Then he would only have five hundred and eighty-nine to go. Well, it was a start. Mark hurried to the bus stop. Linda’s home was only five stops down the line.
Deep in the shadows a subtle flash lit the night as Rev pushed his GO button and slipped back into the cracks of time.
IN THE TUBE
E.F. Benson
“It’s a convention,” said Anthony Carling cheerfully, “and not a very convincing one. Time, indeed! There’s no such thing as Time really; it has no actual existence. Time is nothing more than an infinitesimal point in eternity, just as space is an infinitesimal point in infinity. At the most, Time is a sort of tunnel through which we are accustomed to believe that we are travelling.
“There’s a roar in our ears and a darkness in our eyes which makes it seem real to us. But before we came into the tunnel we existed for ever in an infinite sunlight, and after we have got through it we shall exist in an infinite sunlight again. So why should we bother ourselves about the confusion and noise and darkness which only encompass us for a moment?”
For a firm-rooted believer in such immeasurable ideas as these, which he punctuated with brisk application of the poker to the brave sparkle and glow of the fire, Anthony has a very pleasant appreciation of the measurable and the finite, and nobody with whom I have acquaintance has so keen a zest for life and its enjoyments as he. He had given us this evening an admirable dinner, had passed round a port beyond praise, and had illuminated the jolly hou
rs with the light of his infectious optimism. Now the small company had melted away, and I was left with him over the fire in his study. Outside the tartoo of wind-driven sleet was audible on the window-panes, over-scoring now and again the flap of the flames on the open hearth, and the thought of the chilly blasts and the snow-covered pavement in Brompton Square, across which, to skidding taxicabs, the last of his other guests had scurried, made my position, resident here till to-morrow morning, the more delicately delightful. Above all there was this stimulating and suggestive companion, who, whether he talked of the great abstractions which were so intensely real and practical to him, or of the very remarkable experiences which he had encountered among these conventions of time and space, was equally fascinating to the listener.
“I adore life,” he said. “I find it the most entrancing plaything. It’s a delightful game, and, as you know very well, the only conceivable way to play a game is to treat it extremely seriously. If you say to yourself, ‘It’s only a game,’ you cease to take the slightest interest in it. You have to know that it’s only a game, and behave as if it was the one object of existence. I should like it to go on for many years yet. But all the time one has to be living on the true plane as well, which is eternity and infinity. If you come to think of it, the one thing which the human mind cannot grasp is the finite, not the infinite, the temporary, not the eternal.”
“That sounds rather paradoxical,” said I.
“Only because you’ve made a habit of thinking about things that seem bounded and limited.
Look it in the face for a minute. Try to imagine finite Time and Space, and you find you can’t.
Go back a million years, and multiply that million of years by another million, and you find that you can’t conceive of a beginning. What happened before that beginning? Another beginning and another beginning? And before that? Look at it like that, and you find that the only solution comprehensible to you is the existence of an eternity, something that never began and will never end. It’s the same about space. Project yourself to the farthest star, and what comes beyond that?