Jean Rabe & Martin Harry Greenberg

by Timeshares (v5)

  You shouldn’t have any trouble guessing which side won the propaganda war. Suffice it to say that within a few weeks, historical event markers everywhere began being papered over with suggestions as to how your average ChronoTourist could change the outcomes of those events. Ever wonder what kind of president Custer would’ve made? Head for Little Big Horn and give him a little extra firepower and find out. Or if you wondered how many terms FDR might’ve had if he’d been Time-napped from, say, January 1945 and taken to a twenty-second-century surgical center for umpteen bypasses and as many other repairs as they might find were possible?

  Then, when all the changes were made, you could hire a camera crew and record the results of your changes. FDR, for instance, got two more terms and turned down a slam dunk for a third, and Custer became the first and only president to not only be impeached but also convicted. The video of his trial, especially the Crazy Horse testimony, easily beat OJ’s long-ago adjusted-for-media-inflation ratings numbers, and the rest was history, of a sort. You think reality shows were popular back in the olden/golden days? Try alternate reality shows.

  At one time there were fifteen networks devoted to cranking out nothing else. Even the sporadic wink-and-a-nod oversight the Timeshares people had once provided vanished, as did larger and larger chunks of the ChronoCorps budget. If it weren’t for private donations of all sorts from all sources, legal and illegal, we would’ve gone entirely out of existence.

  And no one would’ve noticed.

  I even began hoping that the Timeshares people were right after all when they claimed that Time was virtually indestructible. If it wasn’t, something was bound to seriously bite us on the ass sooner or later. A runaway Time Knot that ate the universe, maybe—or at least a galaxy or two.

  Or something no theorist had thought of, like the ChronoEquivalent of metal fatigue. After the millionth or billionth Stretch and Snap Back excursion, the superelastic fabric of Time itself would get fed up and rebel. “Screw it!” it would shout. “I wasn’t designed for the sort of aggravation you morons are putting me through!”

  And Time would let go and turn to powder. Or molasses.

  How’d you like that? Or maybe it would reset into another, slightly less grandiloquent Big Bang and tweak a few of the emerging natural laws in hopes of getting some less goofy life-forms next time around.

  All of which was interesting, at least to me, but utterly useless.

  As was everything else I’d thought about since the whole world had gone time-travel nuts. I mean, what could I possibly do that could have an effect, either good or bad? True, I could travel through time and space and do anything I wanted, but so could everyone else, and if you tried the one thing that might help—getting rid of time machines altogether—there’d be a thousand other travelers determined to stop me. Like the Hitler episode only way bigger.

  But then, one day, my phone jangled loudly even though I was certain I’d turned it off long ago.

  When I fumbled it out of my pocket and put it to my ear, an early- model Hawking Voice said, “Check your other pocket.”

  Frowning, I looked around.

  “Your other pocket,” the Hawking voice repeated, “not your surroundings. You don’t have a lot of time.”

  I let myself shiver for a moment. “To do what?” I asked.

  “To check your pocket and look at what you find there.”

  I almost said, “But there’s nothing there,” but realized I would be lying. There was something there.

  Now.

  I could feel it moving.

  “See?” the Hawking voice said.

  Pointlessly, I braced myself and reached into the indicated pocket. And came out with a foldable sheet of digital paper. It must have been down to its standard one-inch square storage mode when I’d first realized it was there. The motion I’d felt had been its efforts to unfold itself.

  Now, freed from its pocket prison, it snapped open like a spring-loaded umbrella. There were no words on the paper, no instructions on what to do next, only a single, constantly morphing image made up of several shades of red so similar to each other that the entire sheet seemed to be in deep shadow.

  A shadow I instinctively knew I did not want to penetrate.

  Except, I realized, I had penetrated it, not once but many times.

  I could remember it vividly, positively. Just as I could also remember with absolute certainty that I had not ever seen it. None of which should have been surprising since Time had been converted into multilevel Swiss cheese.

  “Now, now, Eldred,” said the Hawking Voice. “You’re resisting.”

  I froze, realizing where I must be: In a massive Time Knot, trying to referee the countless pseudomemories that were assaulting my mind more harshly than ever before.

  “Just relax,” the Hawking Voice said, “Let the Knot sort itself out. This is what it was made for.”

  A Time Knot? Made on purpose? I shook my head, or at least I tried. Truth be told, I had no idea if my head was moving or not.

  Or if it even existed outside my own imagination anymore.

  “Don’t concern yourself with trivia, Eldred,” the Hawking voice said, beginning to sound more natural. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Just relax and go with the flow.”

  Easy for him to say. His head didn’t feel like someone had drilled a hole in his skull and was tamping the pseudomemories into it at a fearsome rate.

  Then I began to remember things—which is very different from being on the receiving end of a painful torrent of images and sounds and thoughts—none of which had anything whatsoever to do with me. Except for this one little snippet: The current scenario was ending, it said, and the results were being compiled.

  In my head.

  Except I didn’t remember having one.

  I closed and opened my unseen eyes a few times and was relieved to discover that they really did exist.

  And not just two. There were billions of them, each reading and storing a separate stream of data. In the head that, milliseconds ago, hadn’t even existed.

  The head that was the Matiolin building.

  “Good going, Eldred. You feel better now?”

  I nodded, ignoring the sparks that were still stabbing randomly at what passed for my synapses these days.

  And I did feel better. The roar of the data stream was still there, but all it gave me was a mild headache.

  And even that would soon be over.

  As soon as the data transfer was complete, I could begin the analysis. This time the process should be far quicker than last time. For one thing, the Scenario’s complexity index had been lowered by a factor of two, but it still encompassed thousands of years and countless more timelines of all lengths.

  Abruptly I switched to the search functions which, as usual, I hadn’t known I had until I realized I needed them. The detailed analysis could wait. The cursory analysis the search function could provide would give me all the information I really wanted right now: Had this scenario, like all those that had come before, succumbed to the Styrofoam Syndrome?

  “I take it you’re ready to go, Eldred?” The Hawking Voice sounded almost human now.

  As expected, it didn’t take long to skim the timelines and snag the pertinent data. The only surprise was the disappearance of New Coke. Instead of digging in their heels, this last scenario’s decision makers had given in to plummeting sales and consumer complaints and decided it was pointless to continue to resist. After all, they made the same profits no matter which label they used.

  Unfortunately, the same good sense was not applied to the one problem that had helped to shoot down every scenario so far: the Styrofoam Syndrome.

  In all other respects, the scenarios were typical. Similar amounts of violence and altruism, of cruelty and kindness. Similar streaks of insanity and brilliance, often in the same individual or group.

  But sooner or later, the Styrofoam Syndrome always strikes. People in those scenarios begin defying common sense in
any activity having to do with tomatoes, and we daren’t release them into the general, forward- moving population for fear that this remarkable behavior would spread to other areas.

  And it’s always the same. At some point, one or more of the growers invariably seem to forget that the primary function of a tomato is to taste good, and they start making them prettier to attract customers’ attention and begin making them firmer so they’re easier to ship. They are of course violating one of their primary rules: that any successful operation must be one in which form follows function, not the other way around. I mean, what good is a tomato that can be shipped across the country without a single unsightly blemish but tastes like Styrofoam?

  Once that point is reached, it’s all over. The Syndrome is self-sustaining. As sales drop, fewer and fewer tomatoes are grown in the ground, and even fewer are grown in the kind of ground that produces good flavor, largely because by then no one believes the type of ground makes a difference. With growers interested only in shipability and experts blathering about appearance, real tomatoes are gone. Within another century, no one would recognize the taste of a real tomato, and they’ve gone from being the most delicious of vegetables to being a fading part of folklore.

  Sadly, I made a few last minute changes to the waiting scenario and activated the Reset.

  As the new scenario enveloped me, I could hear the Hawking Voice sigh.

  “Good luck, Eldred,” it said. “Try to get it right this time.”

  Bruck in Time

  Patrick McGilligan

  Patrick McGilligan has been a senior editor of the Dragonlance series of novels for nearly twenty-five years. He has written numerous books about motion pictures including, most recently, Oscar Micheaux: The Great and Only, a biography of the pioneering African American novelist and filmmaker.

  The sound of gunfire zinged all around Bruck as he splashed across the knee-deep shallows, pretending to be heavily burdened by the pack he was carrying on his back. It wasn’t heavy at all. He toted some kind of weapon that was jammed or broken or something. Again and again he pointed it at the enemy on the opposite bank, and every once in a while one of the blue suits fell over—but it wasn’t because of his weapon, which only made bang noises and fired puffs of smoke.

  Everyone shouted and screamed—nothing distinct or intelligible—it was all one loud roar punctuated by gunfire and cannon explosions. Bruck waved his useless weapon in the air excitedly, yelling “Double knuckles!” for some reason he couldn’t explain, when he accidentally swung his rifle into the face of the gray suit galloping through the water next to him, knocking him into a daze. The soldier sank to his knees before pitching forward with his eyes rolling up.

  Bruck plunged ahead in seeming slow motion, blood spattering him from all around and running dark red in the water. He slipped on some rocks that were blood-slick. But none of it was his blood. He was unhurt and in fact barely winded as he reached the opposite shore, and, joined by a mass of others close around him, slammed into a wall of blue suits, cursing and punching and grappling.

  Many gray suits stumbled back into the water with long gleaming blades stuck through their bodies. The soldier running closest to him suddenly clutched his head, dropping his bugle. He was very young, like most of the soldiers. Bruck caught a glimpse of the soldier’s face clamped under a gray cap—startled blue eyes, lanky blond hair. The soldier careened away, head spurting blood. Bruck had a curious flash; he recognized the blond soldier as one who had died yesterday too.

  Now the bullet zinging and cannonfire faded into the distance, replaced by loud clanging swords and the close clash of grunting and wheezing bodies. The yelling had almost died out. Epithets and groans were more common. Across a brown field the gray and blue armies met and mingled and fought against each other in a furious commotion. The air was filled with smoke and dust.

  A veteran mercenary, Bruck felt his bloodlust stir as he swung his empty rifle like a sword, effectively clearing a path before him as a wide-eyed enemy lurched aside rather than face a seeming berserker. Bruck sniffed the air joyously, frowning to realize that although surrounded by dead and dying he missed a familiar scent.

  The smell of death.

  That was about a minute before the battle and everything else stopped.

  If only he could remember. He was a fighter, he remembered that much, a damn good fighter who had fought in hundreds of battles. The details escaped him. The memories seeped away. Well, memories didn’t mean much to soldiers anyway. If a soldier lives long enough for memories, the saying went, he’s lived too long.

  In his time, which was long ago and somewhere else, he would sign on for any campaign, any war, any fight, if paid in good coin. He had even fought, on occasion, without payment of any kind, because fighting is what he did and sometimes the fight was more interesting than the pay. Sometimes he just didn’t care about the pay.

  He was best at fighting with his knife and his sword. That certainly felt like the truth of what he remembered. But he was also growing accustomed to new and unusual weapons.

  The last thing he remembered plainly was he had been drinking in his favorite tavern, the Bull’s Bollocks. The place was crowded with rowdy patrons, shouting and laughing and singing. Bruck had been drinking at a table alone for some time, watching the chaos and merriment swirling around him with increasingly glazed eyes. People tended to give him a wide berth, noting his bare muscled arms, the weapons slung at his waist, and the apparent glowering expression on his face.

  In fact, Bruck was in a buoyant mood. He had been paid well for a raiding party across the border just last week. Someone had to be taught a lesson. Bruck and other mercenaries had torched a barn and house. A foolish man had come running out of the burning barn, waving a knife. He ran straight into Bruck’s sword.

  The sour mead came in huge bubbling pitchers at the Bull’s Bollocks, and the serving girl knew to keep them coming. Bruck was on his sixth or seventh pitcher when the tall barrel-chested stranger came over and asked if he would care to join him as his partner at the gaming table. Bruck didn’t mind at all—indeed he liked the fact that the tall barrel-chested stranger had picked him out of the crowd in such a friendly fashion. He took to the stranger right away for some reason, as though they were kindred warriors. Something about the way the fellow winked at him every time he said something, but also just spoke with his eyes when he wasn’t saying anything at all, like they were old friends in on a conspiracy. The stranger, who was dressed in peculiar clothes that were soft and formfitting, brought Bruck to a gaming table in the back where a pair of men waited.

  They looked to be brothers. The one Bruck took to be the younger had narrow eyes and a pockmarked face. He nodded suspiciously at the newcomer. The older brother had curly red hair and a bristly beard the same hue; he glared at Bruck, making an impatient gesture. Bruck took his weapons off and sat down.

  The three had been drinking and playing games for hours. The tall barrel-chested stranger said he had been winning steadily. But his previous partner had quit and gone home to his wife. Bruck ordered a round of pitchers, and they opened up a new game.

  Bruck remembered all of that, and the tall barrel-chested stranger winking at him as they started up the game, and the brother with red curly hair and bristly beard still glaring at him.

  That was how many days . . . weeks . . . months ago?

  Funny how often the battles were between blue and gray suits. The first time Bruck had fought on the side of the blue suits, and then a month or so later he had worn a gray suit. Only about a week ago he found himself outfitted for action in a blue suit, and just yesterday there he was, yet again, charging across the river in his gray suit.

  Gray suits, blue suits. It didn’t matter to him what uniform he wore.

  Different types of fighting each time, of course. Climbing hills. Slogging through swampy forests. Little hand-to-hand skirmishes. Big sprawling noisy battles.

  Gray, blue. Didn’t matter.

 
Bruck was brooding over a beer as he sat, people watching with the Marquis in the Bar None. The place was loud with electrified music and crowded with folk jumping up and down and wiggling rhythmically. It maybe was Bruck’s tenth beer. Piss weak beer, and it came in so many types and colors he couldn’t keep track of the choices. He sure did miss The Bull’s Bollocks, as much as he could recall of it anyway.

  This was the Marquis’ favorite place. The Marquis was not a real marquis, but that was the name he used when introducing himself to women at the Bar None. Bruck stared at the Marquis, who was staring at some of the dancing women, his eyes riveted. The Marquis liked to boast about all the wars and battles he had fought in, and women liked to listen. He had the look of a fighter, strong and tough like the tall barrel-chested stranger, but it was mainly a look.

  Bruck recognized the fact that the Marquis was a pretend fighter, not a real one like himself. That was okay; the Marquis was his friend, his only friend.

  In a fight or a battle the Marquis needed Bruck to watch his back, though he pretended he didn’t. Bruck always tried to fight on the same side as the Marquis and as near to him as possible, though it didn’t always work out that way.

  The Marquis needed Bruck, and Bruck needed the Marquis too. The Marquis explained things to Bruck he wouldn’t have understood otherwise. And the Marquis was the only other person who knew about Nestor—the tall barrel-chested stranger. Bruck always forgot the tall, barrel-chested stranger’s name unless the Marquis was around, saying stuff like, “Just you be patient, little buddy. Pretty soon Nestor will be back . . .”

  Funny, the Marquis calling him “little buddy” when the Marquis was a short, solid guy and Bruck was maybe an inch or two taller than him. Always winking, though, just like his friend Nestor, the tall barrel-chested stranger.