Synchronic: 13 Tales of Time Travel

by Michael Bunker

  She pinched her temples. “I’m not taking my eyes off the girl. You want to see Pittsburgh, go buy a plane ticket.”

  It was a gamble: between travel and legwork, I was looking at two days away, maybe three. We had seven days until Cecilia would report Penny missing, but Penny didn’t have a job to be missed at. No family in the city. As far as we knew, she might be killed this evening.

  I rolled the dice. The plane to Pittsburgh had propellers. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. Somehow, we managed not to crash. I ran down both sets of Sarnaks in town, confirmed they were real and that Dean belonged to one of them, then returned to the city.

  “So it’s Anders or the field,” Mara said once I rejoined her. “Good news: I bugged her phone. Sketched out a timeline.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Do you know when she’s taken?”

  “Listen to this. Today is Friday. Four days from now, on Tuesday, Cecilia reports Penny missing. Meanwhile, Penny’s schedule is all booked. They’re on for a group date tonight, then Cecilia’s going apartment hunting this weekend and Penny’s going with. Saturday and Sunday, with a date with Anders on Saturday night.”

  “I bet she misses the Sunday apartment hunt,” I said. “Someone flakes on you one day, it’s no big deal. Cecilia probably figures she’s off with Anders. But when she can’t get ahold of Penny on Monday or Tuesday either, that’s when she goes to the cops. If we stick to Penny after she leaves Cecilia on Saturday, we can nail Anders as soon as he makes his move.”

  “I can buy that.”

  I nodded vaguely, working this over. A timeline was a huge find. It was a strong pointer toward the identity of the killer, and we would know to step in the instant anything looked awry. Endgame.

  Mara got up for another cup of coffee. “You look dead on your feet. You want to catch a nap or come with? Our little crew’s going to the movies together.”

  “I’ll sleep when they do.”

  Mara smiled and got her coat. “Now imagine doing this on your own.”

  There was a subway stop right beneath the theater, but we took the car. After we’d circled the block three times in search of a spot out front, I realized we’d be watching from the street. An unexpected disappointment settled on my shoulders. Even in my place and age, we remember the Golden Age of the Movies, and I’d looked forward to joining the crowds seated between the projector and screen and sharing two hours in another world.

  Eventually we found a spot. Penny and Cecilia arrived together. They stood on the sidewalk, Cecilia smoking a tobacco cigarette, cheeks puffing. Dean showed up, scruffy-faced, jeans torn, and then Anders, who towered over the three of them. They went inside.

  I pressed my face for a better look at the theater. Four-story multiplex. Lights for days. “This is crazy, you know? What if Anders takes her out back and shoots her while we’re out here?”

  “Normally, we could stick a little closer.” Mara glanced at the car ceiling; it had begun to rain, tapping the roof. “But you see why the agency save rate hovers below fifty percent.”

  “And we only get one shot.”

  “After that, the trespasser’s back in Primetime, interacting with the world. Returning here to try again would thus fuck with our stream.”

  I nodded. “Wonder what Penny Clarke would think of that.”

  “I imagine very little, as she’ll be dead. You know, there are people who argue we shouldn’t be here at all. A waste of time that only leaves Primetime open to exposure.” Mara pressed her lips together. “You want a hot dog? I want a hot dog.”

  “Maybe later.”

  She popped the door, pulling up her collar against the rain, and jogged to a cart on the corner across from the theater. Penny’s life depended on so much going right for us. Yet if the Cutting Room had never existed, Jackson might never have had the opportunity to come for her.

  Mara got into the car bearing two foil-encased hot dogs and began to chow down. The car filled with the smell of mustard and boiled meat.

  “Ilya,” I said. “Ilya Bostov.”

  Mara wiped sauerkraut from her mouth, talking around a half-chewed bite of hot dog. “That supposed to mean something to me?”

  “That’s what happened at the Academy. Our first year, she and Jackson were friends. Good friends. He wanted more. But there was always something in the way.”

  “Another man?”

  I nodded, tapped my chest. “I never thought much of him. But you can’t tell your girlfriend to quit hanging out with a guy. Not without looking jealous. Insecure. Maybe she starts to think you should be insecure. Especially when the other guy is the type to invite us all to Mardoune for the summer. Ilya, me, a friend of hers named Laury. And Jackson, of course. He has this incredible downtown apartment, view of the river, young, hip neighborhood. Two weeks in, we’re having the time of our lives.

  “That night, the four of us go out to a restaurant. Like normal. Come home, drink more, also normal. Laury falls asleep on the couch and I nod off too, but I wake up just long enough to remember I’d gotten us tickets to the Dolande exhibit in the morning, and even though Ilya’s going to be too hung over to make it, I don’t want to be the one to catch the blame. So I take the dose of Clear I’ve been hoarding. Even then, as soon as I sit down, I’m heading back to dreamland. Too heavy to stand back up.

  “Then I hear a clink. Metallic. Jiggling. Furtive. That’s enough to get me up. Jackson’s not in the room. He’s got a bedroom, but I know. Ilya’s door is locked. I kick it in. The clinking was his belt; his shirt’s off, pants on. She’s wearing nothing. Jackson and I fight across the apartment, but the girls hardly stir. Takes a neighbor to break us up.”

  Mara stared down at her hot dog as if she’d just heard what it was made of. “Why wasn’t he expelled?”

  “Same reason he had a downtown apartment in Mardoune.”

  “Money and the name?”

  I nodded. “He hadn’t actually committed a crime yet. Except for whatever he’d drugged us with. But it washed out of our system before we could get tested. In the morning, I tell Ilya exactly what happened. Ilya flies home that day. I leave the day after that, but she won’t talk to me. When the Academy resumes, she’s not there. I got a call from her six months later. Haven’t heard from her since.”

  Rain pattered the roof of the car. “I’m sorry.”

  “Gave me more time to study,” I shrugged. “Tell me there’s something in there you can use.”

  “Well, it’s going to make me feel a lot less guilty if I have to shoot him.”

  I laughed and leaned back in the seat. My stomach began to rumble, but I ignored it. I’d eat when we were back at the hotel. Anyway, if I ate much right then, I was pretty sure I’d fall asleep sitting up.

  The rain intensified. The second-story windows flashed—lightning?—then vanished in an eruption of black smoke. Glittering shards spun through the air, a background note against the explosion thundering across the night. I yelled out, throwing my hands up over my face.

  Mara reached for the door handle. “Let’s move.”

  Car alarms went off along the street. “I thought she wasn’t supposed to disappear until this weekend!”

  “You think this is coincidence? Move!”

  I rolled from the car into the rain. People were screaming inside and outside. Smoke roiled from the broken windows, carrying the smell of burnt plastic. Pedestrians ran down the sidewalks, gawking over their shoulders. Mara loped across the street and into the theater lobby. My nerves burned along with the building. People were already rushing out through the smoke-choked lobby. Others staggered down the escalators, shrieking senselessly, holding their shirts over their mouths.

  I glanced from face to face, eyes stinging. Passengers thundered up from the subway entrance, thickening the hundreds of people pushing across the lobby. Many were already outside.

  “There!” Mara pointed through the haze.

  Across the wide space, Anders lurched along with the crowd, standing
a full head above most. Mara fought her way nearer. Something tickled in my gut. I held near the doors. On the escalator, blond hair flashed through a momentary hole in the smoke, accompanied by Cecilia. Cecilia was smiling, teeth peeping from beneath her upper lip.

  I drifted forward, turning my shoulders to fight through the oncoming masses. At the base of the escalator, Cecilia hooked around, heading to the back of the building, dragging Penny behind her. Shoulders jostled mine. A wave of smoke blew over us, accompanied by fresh screams. When it cleared, I glimpsed Penny and Cecilia exiting the south corner of the building at a run.

  I barged forward, drawing shouts and shoves. I hit the street and slowed at the curb, peering into the rain. People fled down the streets, faces warped with fear. A block away, a blond ponytail swung as its owner rounded a corner and disappeared behind an apartment.

  I ran ahead, suddenly aware that I was unarmed. We hadn’t expected an event tonight and had left our pistols in the hotel. I swerved around the corner, slowing as soon as I saw the two women walking briskly down the sidewalk. Penny was glancing over her shoulder, waving back in the direction of the theater. Cecilia put an arm around her shoulder and guided her on.

  We passed a small park. Pedestrian traffic thinned. Too late, I realized I should have dropped back; at a scuff of my shoe, Cecilia turned around. She picked up her pace. Knowing she could bolt at any moment, I kept up.

  As they passed a tall red building, Cecilia beelined for the front doors and disappeared inside with Penny. I broke into a run. Inside, a woman behind a high desk swung her face to inspect me. I smiled tightly, gesturing out at the rain, and moved through the rudimentary security system.

  I stopped, taken aback. The middle of the building was nothing but open space. The ceiling hung two hundred feet above the patterned marble floor. Railed balconies looked down from three sides. On the ground floor, the lobby's edges were fronted by reading desks, nine-foot shelves of books, and booths with bulky, cubical monitors and equally bulky headphones. Scattered people sat quietly, absorbing media. I walked quickly to the elevators. None were moving. I opened the stairwell, heard footsteps far above.

  I moved inside, easing the door closed behind me, and headed up as fast and as silently as I could. The library was an odd choice, yet as canny as it came. The slightest scene would draw far more attention than I wanted. If I pursued, Cecilia could lose me in the stacks; if I lurked near the door, she could take a back exit, or wait for me to be ejected by security. Even if my wrench in her plans saved Penny this night, Cecilia could return later for a second pass after I was back in Primetime.

  Their steps echoed above me.

  “What are we doing?” Penny said.

  Cecilia’s voice was so soft I could hardly make out her words. “Waiting here, where it’s safe. We don’t know what’s going on out there.”

  “It’s fine. We’re five blocks from the theater.”

  “Give me ten minutes, okay? My heart’s about to explode. Then we’ll go home.”

  “What are we doing in a library?” Penny’s voice bounced from the walls. “I’m going to Anders’s.”

  “Penny! You’re shaken up, that’s all.”

  Footsteps clapped down the stairs. I saw my chance. I had paused a few landings below them, but I began to climb, doing nothing to disguise my steps. The sound of another set of shoes rang down the stairs. Ascending. I reached a landing. Above, Penny’s eyes widened. I smiled politely, passing her. Upstairs, a metal door closed with a bang.

  I ran up the steps. The door opened onto a maze of towering bookshelves. I hustled to the balcony running along the edge of the stacks. The lobby sprawled fifty feet beneath me. A nipple-high railing protected me from stumbling into the vastness, but the very sensation of so much vacant space was dizzying, as was the repeating geometry of the stone floor far below.

  The level appeared to be empty; Friday night. I moved forward, feet whispering on the carpet. Clothing rasped from somewhere up ahead. At the corner of the stack, I hesitated. Smelled perfume. Heard perfect silence. I slipped a book from the shelf and lobbed it over the stack.

  It thumped against the next row of shelves. I spun around the corner. Cecilia whirled toward me, gun in hand. I grabbed it and twisted, slamming her hand into a row of books. She slammed her fist into my chin. I lurched back, but I had fifty pounds on her. I twisted harder. She cried out, her grip relaxing. I wrenched the pistol away.

  Cecilia backed toward the entrance to the row. “Look at you.”

  “Look at you,” I said, happy to have a little more space between us. “Where’d you get the body?”

  “How did you make me?”

  “Your tobacco. You weren’t inhaling. Puffed it in your cheeks, like you didn’t know what to do with it or didn’t like it.”

  She laughed in disgust. “No way was that enough.”

  “Enough to get me watching. Then, after the explosion, you forgot yourself and grinned. Showed your teeth. You may have changed bodies, Jackson, but you didn’t change you. Why Penny?”

  “Haven’t figured it out? No wonder you couldn’t pass a single sim.”

  “I don’t have to get the answers myself. Central will slice every last one from you. Right before they vacate your brain. Then I’ll get to see those teeth while you’re smiling, swabbing floors and toilets, too scooped-out to know you were ever anything more.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You idiot. Then I’m already dead, aren’t I? The only question left is whether you’re willing to pull the trigger—and lose your life in prison here?”

  She grinned and moved toward me, rolling her hips. Pulling the trigger would bring every eye to me. Get the place locked down. Maybe I’d make it out and maybe I wouldn’t.

  I charged into her. Lifted her up. Slung her over the railing.

  Before she began to scream, I ducked back into the stacks. Her wail pierced through the vastness of the library. I headed toward the stairs, wiping off her gun, and stuffed it behind a dusty pile of books. By the time I got downstairs, they’d closed off the doors. But to them, it was a probable suicide. I told them I’d seen nothing. I gave them my information and left.

  At the hotel, the room was dark, empty. Mara didn’t call the room until three a.m.—she’d been on Anders the whole time. I told her it was over. I could tell she wanted to ask more, but she restrained herself until she got back to the hotel. I told her Jackson had been Cecilia. That once I confronted him, he’d forced my hand.

  “How did you know?” she said. I explained about the smoking, the grin. Mara frowned. “Awfully thin to abandon me in the middle of a chase.”

  “It was a calculated gamble. You were already on Anders.”

  “And what if you’d been here by yourself? Which one would you have followed then?”

  “The same. Anders didn’t feel right.”

  “Oh, bullshit.”

  “Jackson planned the trip to Mardoune for weeks. Months, maybe. He wasn’t going to put less effort into this. Anders was too easy. A false lead. Jackson meant us to follow him while he—Cecilia—made off with Penny.”

  She nodded at this, then frowned again. “But the Pods saw Jackson climbing inside. That’s how we knew it was him. I can believe he was carrying a mask, a nose kit, that sort of thing. But how did he change his height? His whole body?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that. We didn’t figure it out until we got back to Primetime. His Pod didn’t show one jump—it showed two. He’d gone to another world for the body job, jumped back to Primetime as a young, vibrant woman, and without exiting the Pod, had then made the jump to Penny’s world.

  “God damn,” Mara said. “He would have made a hell of an agent.” She glanced at me sidelong. “But so will you.”

  We were able to turn up a few more answers. According to newspaper records culled from the time, the theater explosion had taken place in the original timeline and hadn’t been Jackson’s doing. We surmised he’d taken advantage of the event to throw of
f the observers he’d known would be following him. As for duping us with the Cecilia identity, we discovered the real Cecilia Evans had died three months prior in a wholly legitimate car crash. His absorption of her identity might have unraveled if we’d dug further, but his new gender had been the perfect ploy to get us to dismiss Cecilia as a suspect.

  I searched everything—Jackson’s search logs, his communications, his home. I’ve built theories, but I’ve never learned why he did it. Why it was Penny Clarke. Maybe some day, I’ll learn enough for the pieces to fall into place.

  Until then, I keep going. Keep using every trick I’ve got to undo what should never have been done. Until I reach the point where I never come back without adding a “1” to the board I keep in my head—and I, like all of us, am so far from this—I see his teeth, I see her falling, I see the face of every one I’ve failed to save.

  A Word from Edward W. Robertson

  Technology’s what sci-fi is all about, but it isn’t always a boon for other genres. Back in the early 2000s, cell phones threatened to put an end to horror movies as we knew them.

  Being trapped with a killer doesn’t mean much when they can be foiled with a text message. Fortunately, screenwriters had access to an eldritch trick known as “hand-waving.” Oops, your battery’s dead. Oh dear, turns out Camp Crystal Lake doesn’t have 4G coverage. Nullifying cell phones is easy (for now!), but the technology is so ubiquitous and disruptive it has to be addressed or the audience will be distracted by questions all movie long.

  Screenwriters haven’t done as well with the Google Problem. Back in the day, if your character wanted to learn more about the strange bump under his skin, or the obscure Babylonian demon possessing her son, they at least had to visit the library of an eccentric expert. Now? A normal person will travel no further than the far-flung land of their desk. To consult the venerable Wizard of Google. And there is no such thing as an exciting Google scene. Not even with safe search off.