by Anthology
As to John Bartine, my friend, my patient for five minutes, and—Heaven forgive me!—my victim for eternity, there is no more to say. He is buried, and his watch with him—I saw to that. May God rest his soul in Paradise, and the soul of his Virginian ancestor, if, indeed, they are two souls.
JOIN OUR TEAM OF TIME TRAVEL PROFESSIONALS
Sarah Pinkser
The sounds of half-tuned electric guitars blasted from the doorways of Manny’s and Sam Ash, dueling across the grimy patch of 48th St known as Music Row. Magda waited until the group of time tourists she was following had turned the corner, then plunged her arm into the nearest garbage can. Her hand encountered something slimy.
“Ugh,” she said, not for the first time that day. She wished she could wear gloves, but they weren’t part of her new uniform.
“Are you complaining, Magda?” asked her supervisor, Lwazi, through her jawbone implant. “In your first hour on the job?”
The nice thing about her cover identity was that Magda could respond freely. Manhattan in 1985 didn’t have jawbone communication, but it did have plenty of bag ladies who talked to themselves. Magda was temporarily one of them.
“No sir,” she responded. “Not complaining.”
“Good. There are plenty of people who would jump at this job if you don’t want it.”
Magda returned to her task. Her search of the garbage can yielded two Fauxcolate wrappers and an empty hydration pod. She wondered why they bothered bringing Fauxcolate to a time when they could buy the real thing; from what she had heard there was no comparison. She stuffed the trash into one of the bags in her shopping cart and shuffled after the tourists. A job is a job, she said to herself.
She turned left on 7th Avenue, as the tourists had. She checked each garbage can they had passed, and kept her eyes open for future-refuse that hadn’t quite made it to the cans, just as the training vids had instructed. Halfway down the next block she spotted a discarded box of MaryJane cigarettes. Had those been around in 1985? “When in doubt, take it out,” the training had said. She grabbed it just in case, realizing too late that it was lying in a pile of dog feces.
“Eeeeech!” she said, dropping it into one of her bags and examining her hand. She wished she was allowed to carry sanitizer.
She caught up at Times Square. They were standing in the center island, gaping at the chaotic heart of the city, surrounded by peep shows and neon. Most of them blinked the shutters on their eye-cameras; only a couple seemed to remember the prop cameras around their necks. They were given cameras, costumes, and currency in lieu of training. The agency considered it more cost-effective to send guides and guards and cleanup crews than to try to teach their rich clients. New Yorkers ignored tour groups so there wasn’t much risk of interaction.
“Follow, Magda.” Lwazi’s voice moved from her jaw to her ear. She realized she had confused her group with another, and hurried to make up the distance.
“What happens if I don’t make it to the pickup with them?” she asked.
“Make it to the pickup,” Lwazi said.
“But if I didn’t?”
He sighed. “Magda, you did receive a copy of the contract, correct?”
“Yes.”
“But let me guess. You didn’t read the fine print before signing?”
“Not all of it,” she admitted. “It was my first job offer since I had my kid. I wasn’t in any position to turn it down, whatever it said.”
“You skipped some important stuff. If you fail to make it to your designated pickup, you must reach one of the other pickups. You have one week.”
Magda wanted to ask what would happen if she didn’t make it back in a week, but she thought she had shown enough ignorance already. She needed the job. Her daughter Sofia would be starting school soon, and there was so much to pay for.
One crosswalk separated Magda from her group. She fought the urge to attach herself to them. Close but not too close, as the training had said. She picked up another Fauxcolate wrapper and followed them back up Broadway.
The tourists had tickets to the Cats matinee, so Magda had a couple of hours to kill. There wasn’t much she could do in her cover identity besides sit and wait and try not to get arrested for loitering.
“Lwazi, mind if I take a bathroom break?”
“Where?”
She looked around. “Alley.”
“You’ve got five minutes,” he said. She felt the tiny click of the implant going inactive. The agency’s only concession to privacy.
Magda took the moment to sidle up to the group’s other support worker.
“Excuse me, Officer,” she said.
“You’re not supposed to talk to me.” He kept his eyes on the street, his spine straight. She didn’t doubt she was beneath his notice.
“It’s my first time. I’m just a little nervous. How many trips have you made?”
“Enough that I get to play cop instead of homeless.”
“Are you still monitored every minute?”
He puffed out his chest. “Nah. They trust me.”
Good. “So, um, what happens if we miss the pickup?” He gave her a look like a real policeman trying to decide if she was a suspect. She rushed an explanation. “I mean, I have a kid. I’m not trying to run out or anything. I just want to know.”
He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, then tapped his head. “The nanobots injected at the same time as the HIV and hepatitis vaccines begin eating your memory to make sure you don’t profit off future knowledge. The temporary fertility suppressors become permanent. You’re left behind in your cover identity.”
“That’s barbaric!”
“No, that’s common sense. Otherwise they’d have employees disappearing into the past for better job opportunities, or betting on sure things and leaving themselves fortunes. There’d be branching timelines and paradoxes and all kinds of trouble. Speaking of trouble, you should probably get moving along.” He raised his voice at the end and pointed, for the benefit of a real policewoman who chose that moment to stroll by.
Magda walked in the direction he pointed, stopping at a bus shelter. Another click suggested Lwazi was back in her ear. A job is a job, she told herself again. Maybe if she was good at it, she’d get to play cop someday instead of bag lady.
“Goddamn time tourists,” she heard somebody mutter. Magda turned to see a homeless woman occupying one side of the shelter’s bench. “Goddamn time tourists. You can’t spit without hitting one.” The woman tore open a chocolate bar and tucked the wrapper into a bag beside her. She bit into it and closed her eyes, sighing. When she opened her eyes, she held the candy out toward Magda.
Magda shuddered and shook her head. Better not to know. She settled down on the other side of the bench and pulled her shopping cart close.
JUST ENOUGH TIME
Douglas K. Beagley
The Time Traveler entered Starbucks in a hurry.
There were five of us, the usual. I was drinking a mocha with whipped cream, trying hard to hold the hot cup and not look like an ass. I wondered if I should have shaved. I was going after Jenn, you know, nodding at what she said. I asked, "What did you think of the book?” and all that, and I thought it was going pretty well. I probably should have shaved. I thought my leather coat was good, but just about then I was worrying she might be a vegetarian now, or hate leather or something. Jenn plays all smart like that.
So the Time Traveler had pushed the door open roughly, and she stepped into the noise and smell. She looked around the room, sort of frantic and maybe disappointed.
How did I know she was a time traveler? Probably something about how fourth-dimension travel lends a subtle dream-like quality to things and people, as if they are only available to our reality through a profound mistake. Whatever. She was kind of a hottie, thin but curvy with really great hair, and we were all pretty stoked when she rushed right over to our table.
“I only have a few minutes. Please, please listen to me.”
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Ted looked up and spoke first. "You're a time traveler,” he said. (Ted is an ass.)
“Yes, I've got just a few minutes and I need—”
“I mean, seriously, you're a time traveler! That's fantastic!”
So, I guess we could all tell. She walked and spoke oddly, or she smelled wrong. She definitely had a funny smell. A bit like moldy plastic.
“Just listen, please—peanut allergies are a virus. Autism is triggered by the plastic filaments in disposable diapers. The only way to reliably cure all cancer—”
“What do I do in the future?” Sarah shouted, running her words together. Her eyes were wide and she was holding her hands up, kind of like a mime. I think she was a bit freaked out, but then Sarah is always a bit freaked out. I used to go around with Sarah, you know, until I realized she can't cross the street by herself. I mean that in a metaphorical way. I mean, she could probably cross the street okay, really. But if someone I know was all sad because one of our friends had been hit while crossing the street, I would ask right away, "Was it Sarah?” because if you knew her you'd know that's exactly how she is.
“What?” The Time Traveler looked at Sarah, and then at all of us, even at me, as if she expected us to be taking notes or something, drinking her in like she was queen of the future. She might have been going to cry or get angry.
“Do we ever get superpowers?” Ted asked. (God, Ted is such an ass.)
“No, wait—who wins the World Series next year? Or, like, should I buy Apple stock, or has it had its run already?” That was Roger. Roger is less of an ass than Ted, but you can probably tell not by much. Roger had a mustache for a while, if that tells you anything.
The Time Traveler put her hands on our table all serious-like. "Cancer. Damn it. You can completely prevent it by maintaining a certain bacterial balance in everyone's intestines. Gravity isn't a particle or a wave, you've got to stop thinking of it like the rest of physics. Fusion reactors can work, but they're a waste of effort relative to—”
“Stop! I gotta know—are aliens real?” Okay, I asked that one. It was like my brain was in some kind of fog, honestly. You wouldn't understand unless you've met a celebrity or a vampire or something. When you meet someone like that, you feel around and hunt for what to say, and nothing comes out, and then you just feel dumb and you think like mad until you can come up with something that isn't "Duh, I love your work. Would you sign my forehead please? Duh.” I didn't want everyone else to have a go and not have said anything myself, you know? And Jenn stayed quiet through it all, as if watching all smart like. So that was my question, and it got a good laugh and some approving nods. I think Sarah said, "Yeah, are they?” And I swear it would have taken the Time Traveler like two seconds to answer it, but of course she didn't.
Instead she just looked more and more alarmed. She kept talking faster, like some auctioneer. She was sort of crying, and we all felt a little bad, except for Ted, who was oblivious as always. Stuff just tumbled from her lips. "You can double your life span by synthesizing fifth-sequence mitochondria. Don't try to cure AIDS, that only makes it worse—focus on prevention. When Tyrone Shore is born, get him into therapy immediately. The Coleman Agreement will cause a horrible war—”
“Hey, what are your clothes made of?” Ted asked. And I have to admit, I was kind of curious. I mean, they looked like some kind of densely woven plastic, like a linen maybe, but the drape was quite pleasing.
All of a sudden, she was gone.
It was like the room sort of folded and unfolded again, only she was the only part that didn't. I had a vague sensation of her passing through us, or through the whole Starbucks, or through everything. I'm not really sure. Felt a bit like throwing up, to be perfectly honest.
We were all quite impressed, though, especially by the last bit. Sarah and Ted both clapped. I thought that maybe Jenn would get all philosophical about life, like she does sometimes. That might improve my chances. You know, in a sort of "It's graduation, everything's changing, let's do it,” kind of way. So we were all quite stoked, in different ways.
Then we all went to Sam's Diner for pancakes. Did you know Sam's serves pancakes until midnight? I didn't know it either, but Roger really wanted pancakes and he has a way of sort of getting the group to do whatever he wants, and so we went to Sam's. I don't think they were very good pancakes, but then, what are you expecting at ten at night at a place like Sam's? I think the syrup was real, at least, and I might have gotten a bit of a sign from Jenn.
We were snug in the booth, you know? And we brushed shoulders for a bit, like I might get in at some point. I think so, anyway. She plays all smart, but I bet I get in. Next week at the latest, or forget it.
By the way, I don't really remember what the Time Traveler said. I just wanted to write all this down so I'd remember it, and I probably messed up the stuff about peanuts and cancer and all that. So don't get excited or anything. You can't trust what time travelers say, anyway. Who's future are they from? Not mine. Not Jenn's.
Whatever. I'm pretty sure she said the diapers and autism thing. I mean, I know she said something about autism, though it might not all have been connected. I'm definitely not putting my kid in disposable diapers, just in case. If I ever have kids, I mean, which isn't all that likely, of course. But you never know. I've got time.
KIDNAPED INTO THE FUTURE
William P. McGivern
Sid Hunt hadn’t counted on this act in his Follies of the Future. Not a real machine out of time!
I was stretched flat on the stage of the Empire theater trying to get a good candid shot of the big cellophane space ship, when Sid Hunt, the small, volatile producer of Follies of the Future, came storming out of the wings.
He shot one rapid glance about the stage and then clapped both hands to his head despairingly.
“Where is she?” he moaned. “Where is she? She should be on stage now. The curtain goes up in three minutes.” I took the camera away from my face and sat up.
“So will my blood pressure,” I said. “Let me remind you that I was hired as a press agent, not as a combination nurse, stage hand, stooge and crystal ball gazer. How do I know where she is? Did you try her dressing room?”
“No,” Sid Hunt said rather sulkily. “I was going to try the obvious places last.”
“Fine,” I said, climbing to my feet. “Now while you’re looking in back of all the pictures and in all the ashtrays, I’ll try her dressing room and then her apartment. At that you’ll probably have better results.”
But I was wrong. Ruby was in her dressing room for a change, and ready to go on.
“Darling,” I said sweetly. “I don’t want to change any plans you might have made, but the curtain is going up in a few seconds and we’d all appreciate it if you’d put in an appearance for old times’ sake.”
Blissfully ignoring me, she pirouetted before the full length mirror, smiling charmingly at herself.
“Mr. Hunt,” I said patiently, “has just collapsed from nervous prostration. If there’s a streak of Florence Nightingale in you, you won’t keep him on the rack a second longer than necessary.”
“Don’t I look pretty?” she asked, noticing me for the first time.
“Yes,” I said. I couldn’t lie about it. She was supposed to be wearing the Costume Of Tomorrow. If our conception of the next century’s attire is correct, I certainly envy my great-great-grandson. That is if there are girls like Ruby around to wear them.
With her lovely auburn hair and slender, beautifully molded chassis, she would have made the male inhabitants of any century sit up and stare.
I reluctantly transferred my gaze from her more obvious charms to her wide innocent brown eyes.
“Your mascara is running,” I said, “but I doubt if anyone will look up to notice it. That, however, is beside the point. You have, my beautiful bird-brain, exactly twenty-three seconds to take your place before the last curtain call. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Her eyes flew to
the small clock on her vanity.
“Oh,” she wailed, “why didn’t somebody tell me?”
Without even a last glance in the mirror she skipped past me and down the corridor.
I shook my head and walked after her, thinking gloomily of the fall on the head I had suffered as a baby. I always felt that it was this misfortune which had led indirectly to my becoming a press agent. For if I hadn’t been dropped on my head I might have grown up with enough common sense to keep out of this bug-house racket.
Muttering to myself like Hamlet I turned a corner and bumped squarely into the nattily attired figure of Dapper Dan Lopez.
“You’re just the man I want to see,” Dapper Dan smiled.
“The feeling is not mutual,” I growled and started off, but he caught my arm. His black eyes were gittering, but the thin smile was still on his lips.
“No sense being hard headed,” he said gently.
I turned and faced him. Dapper Dan was a front man for one of the town’s unwholesome mobsters, Tony Scarlotti, Scarlotti, whose finger was in every lucrative pie in the city, wanted a cut in on the show.
“I told you before,” I said quietly, “that Sid Hunt wants no part of you or Scarlotti.”
“Hunt has a lot of confidence in you,” Dapper Dan suggested casually. “You might put in a kind word for the boss.” I smiled sweetly.
“Will you crawl back under your damp rock,” I said, “and tell Scarlotti that I wouldn’t recommend him for a job stoking the furnaces of Hades. As for you,” I went on, “if you aren’t out of this theater in four and two-tenths seconds flat I will personally throw you out.”
“Listen sucker,” Dapper Dan barked, “I—”