Second Lives

by Scott K. Andrews

  One more corner and there, ahead of him, was the market. He pushed and shoved his way through the crowd. At one point he put his head down and charged through a knot of people standing enjoying a sales pitch from an oleaginous man with a table of knock-off perfume. And there, ahead of him, his mother. Standing with her back to him. And in the distance, seen over her shoulder, his dad and his younger self walking away. And to his left a big black car . . .

  He was so close. He reached out his arm.

  Shouted, 'Mum!'

  She turned towards him, his fingertips brushing her blouse, and then . . .

  ... a pause. A hole in his memory. Black. Empty. Nothing.

  Then the lap of surf on his feet, hot sand beneath his hands and the plaintive cry of seabirds, strangely muffled.

  Kaz sat up on a deserted beach, his head ringing, his whole body vibrating as if someone had struck him like a huge gong. There was blood in his eyes, in his mouth, in his ears. His clothes were in tatters.

  And he was alone.

  Sweetclover was older than Jana had last seen him, in 1645. This was the man who had imprisoned her in 2014, beginning the slide into middle age, greying at the temples. He was flanked on either side by intimidating men in black suits, standard-issue security goons with earpieces, dark glasses and very big guns.

  After an initial rush of fear, Jana quickly regained her composure.

  'Where's your blue tattoo gang?' she asked Sweetclover as she got to her feet. 'These guys aren't half as scary.'

  'No reason to draw attention to ourselves,' he said. 'Ten seconds with the mind-writer and I have my own local protection detail.'

  Jana nodded, feigning interest while considering her options. There were none.

  She remembered Kaz asking her once, 'Who jumps off a skyscraper?' It was a good question. The last time she'd been trapped on a rooftop with no escape, it had seemed the obvious

  thing to do. She had known then - had pretty much always known - that the chip at the base of her skull would ensure her survival, in the only way that mattered. But when she had felt Quil's knife slide up between her ribs, Jana had confronted a fear she'd never before felt - fear of death, permanent and irreversible. There was no server backing her up in 1645; if she died off-grid, there was no coming back. She had been able to use that fear to leverage their escape from 1645, threatening to kill herself and destroy the chip to prevent Quil getting her hands on it, but she had been desperate, wounded, dying anyway. She had acted without thought.

  During the long days recovering in the hospital in Kinshasa, Jana had tried not to think about her sudden and unexpected mortality, but it had preyed on her mind constantly. Her whole life had been lived within the protective cocoon of effective immortality, but that had been stripped away. Every day she spent in the past was a day on which she could die, for good and for ever. She was finding that less easy to come to terms with than she would like.

  So as she stood facing hostile captors with no means of escape, she was humiliated and horrified to find that fear was rooting her to the spot, stopping her mouth and shortening her breath. She tried to tell herself that this was not who she was, but the reckless bravado that had characterised her life so far had deserted her and she was forced to face the question she had been avoiding since she first travelled in time - who was she without her backup, the safety net that made any action, no matter how reckless, acceptable?

  'How did you find me?' she asked, playing for time.

  Sweetclover scoffed and did not bother to answer. He was right: it had been a dumb question.

  'So what now?' asked Jana. 'Back to Io Scientific?'

  Sweetclover nodded and reached towards Jana with his left hand. Red sparks began to fly as their fingers nearly touched.

  And then a larger flash of red obscured those sparks as Dora materialised six feet above Sweetclover's head.

  Jana stepped back in surprise, almost tumbling backwards into the street but regaining her balance as Dora pirouetted in mid-air, her sword flashing in the light as she fell, graceful and controlled, and sliced Sweetclover's gun hand off at the wrist.

  Jana was so focused on not falling off the roof, she missed the detail of Dora's attack, but by the time she had pulled herself back from the brink the two security guards were unconscious and Sweetclover was lying on the ground, clutching his wrist stump, mouth wide in a silent scream. Dora stood over him, sword pressed to his throat. She kicked Sweetclover's right hand, still clutching the gun, towards Jana.

  Fighting back nausea, Jana leaned down and prised the warm, slack, bloody fingers away from the cold weapon. It was one of those nasty metal things from this time period. She snipped off the safety.

  A loud buzzing behind her made Jana spin in alarm and she found herself confronted with a camera mounted beneath a small quadcopter. She smiled down the lens, hoping that Quil could see her as she raised her gun and shot the camera. The drone dropped into the street below, lost in amongst the smoke and wreckage.

  'Run,' said Dora. 'I'll meet you at the rendezvous.'

  On any other day Jana would have hated being ordered around, but right now she was kind of glad Dora was telling her what to do. Welcoming orders was a completely new experience for Jana, but she didn't question it.

  So Jana ran past Dora and launched herself off the far edge of the roof.

  She leapt into space, easily clearing the distance to the next roof but landing awkwardly; she felt her ankle twinge. No doubt Dora would have rolled to absorb the momentum and sprung to her feet gracefully.

  She checked her chip and pulled up a map that hovered before her eyes as she limped down an outside staircase to ground level and ran on to a wide street lined with shops and cafes. It was eerily quiet apart from the sirens. An ambulance raced past her, wailing urgently.

  She garnered no attention as she ran - everyone was either running towards the explosion to help, or cowering inside watching TV, waiting for the live coverage to start. There were sirens screaming from all directions as emergency vehicles converged on the area. Only a few streets away was the cafe where she had eaten that horrible kebab with Kaz and Steve. She knew it would be quiet there for at least half an hour. She ran to the door and peered cautiously inside, sighing with relief when she didn't see herself. She remembered that she and Steve had moved slowly, steering shocked Kaz in this direction gently. She had time, but not much.

  Old Formica tables and hard plastic chairs sat drearily on top of faded lino. A couple of prints, sunwashed until they were basically green blurs, hung in gaudy frames on walls thick with old grease. The only occupants were a fat middle- aged man holding court with a group of friends at the serving counter, crowded around a TV.

  She put the gun's safety back on and tucked it into her waistband, pulling her T-shirt down over it, then she pushed open the door.

  The man behind the counter looked up as the little bell tinkled to announce her arrival. Jana breathed in the spicy wild meat smell of the cafe, which brought back a rush of memory. She'd been so confused the last time she was here, trying to get a handle on what was happening to her, trying to get the measure of Kaz, responding to her situation as she always had, by trying to manipulate the people around her. She felt slightly ashamed of that now. Kaz had deserved better. That said, it was time to manipulate someone else.

  'Hi,' she said to the cafe owner, trying not to focus on the single bead of sweat that was sliming its way down from the crown of his bald head towards his face. It was 50/50 whether his eyebrows wrould intercept it or whether it would splat into the salad on the counter beneath him. 'Gross,' she thought, 'that could be the salad he puts in my kebab. My younger self could be about to eat that exact bead of sweat.' Suppressing a shudder, she improvised a cover story.

  'My twin sister,' she said, 'has got a date in this cafe any minute. My father disapproves of the guy she's seeing and has asked me to listen in. We think she's going to try and run away with him. Is there anywhere I can hide where I might be ab
le to hear what they're saying but they can't see me?'

  The cafe owner looked startled while his friends reacted variously, with laughter or serious nods of approval.

  'Your twin sister?' asked the owner.

  Jana nodded.

  'Does she love this boy?'

  'That's what I'm here to find out,' Jana said. 'And please, they'll be here any second.'

  'I ran away with my wife,' said the cafe owner. 'Her father did not approve of me.' He stuck out his chest in a display of pride, his stomach straining against his shirt. 'But she loved me. I think maybe I should throw you out and give your sister and her boy a free meal. For love.'

  Love is blind, thought Jana, amazed at how quickly her simple plan had gone south.

  'He's no good,' she pleaded. 'Truly. He's a liar and a thief.'

  'His father-in-law said the same thing about him,' said one of the cafe owner's friends. 'Of course, he was right.'

  There was a chorus of laughter from the group at the counter.

  'Look, please,' begged Jana, feeling humiliated to her very core. 'I'm only looking out for her.'

  The cafe owner pursed his lips, unsure.

  'Go on, let her hide in the cupboard,' urged one of the men, amused at the possibility of some drama happening in the cafe itself rather than on the TV screen.

  The owner shrugged and led Jana to a small door in the back wall. 'You can hide in there. I don't think you'll be able to hear them, but you can watch through the keyhole.'

  'Good enough, thank you,' said Jana.

  'But afterwards, you buy some food, OK?'

  Jana nodded. 'You bet,' she lied. 'Smells great!'

  The owner opened the door to reveal a teeny little storeroom lined with shelving heavy with jars and bottles. A thin window, rimed in ancient dirt, let in a gash of sickly light. There was barely enough room for her to stand inside, but she crammed herself in and he pushed the door closed.

  Almost immediately she heard the bell on the door chime and leaned forward to peer through the keyhole, nervous although she couldn't say exactly why. She could just make out herself and Steve with Kaz in between them. They had their arms round him, pulling him inside. His eyes were vacant, his feet shuffling, in deep shock. They were all coated in dust and it was obvious they'd been near the explosion, so the men at the counter ran to help them, fussed and soothed, then began bombarding them with questions. Jana remembered this so vividly. It was surreal to be watching herself, as if she had stepped into her own memories.

  She crouched there and watched as Kaz gradually returned to reality, as her younger self sized him up, took control, banished Steve outside and made a pact with Kaz. Jana remembered every thought she'd had at that moment. How she'd assessed Kaz as if he were some kind of experiment, trying to establish how easy he would be to control and manipulate. She had thought she was being clever but watching herself now, jana was horrified at how blatant she seemed, how unsubtle. She saw every devious thought clearly on her dust-streaked face and couldn't believe Kaz wasn't seeing through her.

  Wow, this was uncomfortable. Jana had never much worried about how she appeared to other people, but now, for the first time, she was confronted with herself at her worst, and was forced to the nasty conclusion that she didn't like herself much.

  Kaz and her younger self rose and left and a moment later there was a knock at the storeroom door.

  'They're gone,' said the cafe owner as he opened the door. He looked in at her, not bothering to hide his disgust. 'You saw?'

  Jana nodded.

  'You saw that they had been in the bombing,' he said, 'and you didn't come out and comfort your sister?' 'I—'

  'Get out of my cafe.'

  Jana nodded. She felt about as disgusted with herself as the cafe owner did, though for different reasons. She left without saying a word.

  'You are not very good at this, are you?' said Dora, kneeling before Sweetclover and applying a field dressing to the wound where his hand used to be. He was quivering as shock set in and was unable to answer her. He just stared at the hand that lay before him on the rooftop.

  'So you're a time traveller now too,' said Dora. 'How did that happen?'

  Sweetclover's reverie continued, so Dora broke off from her ministrations to deliver a hard slap to his face. That got his attention and he looked up and met her gaze.

  Dora greeted him with a smile. 'Long time no see, boss,' she said as she jabbed a hypodermic into his forearm and delivered a strong anaesthetic.

  'Good as new,' she said, admiring the dressing.

  'Not really,' said Sweetclover darkly, the words short and guttural, forced out through pain and shock.

  'Give the drugs a moment to work, and you'll be fine,' said Dora, raising her sword again and pressing the tip of it

  against Sweetclover's breast. 'I can kill you before you have time to jump away, so let's talk for a moment, Henry.'

  Sweetclover looked across at her and she saw his gaze clear as the pain subsided. After a moment he seemed to have partly regained his composure.

  'Hello, Dora,' he said. 'It has been a long time for you, I think, since we last met.'

  Dora nodded. 'Last time you met me, you gave me sandwiches and chocolate,' she said.

  'And the last time you met me, I imagine, was in 1645, yes?' replied Sweetclover.

  'I ask you again, how is it you are now able to travel in time, as I am?' said Dora.

  'It is thanks to you, in fact,' said Sweetclover. 'Or your blood, to be precise.'

  It took Dora a moment to realise what he was referring to, but wThen she did, she exclaimed, The blood sample you took!'

  Sweetclover nodded. 'Quite so,' he said. 'We were able to extract enough of the active element that infuses your blood and transfer it into me.'

  'Why did you need my blood?' asked Dora, suspecting a lie. 'If there is something inside me, something I have absorbed, that triggers my abilities, why not use your wife's?'

  'Her blood is different in some regard. It was explained to me, but I confess I did not entirely comprehend the explanation,' said Sweetclover, his angry face belying the apology in his words.

  'Quil sent you here for Jana.' It was not a question.

  'She really does want that chip in her head very badly indeed,' said Sweetclover.

  'Why?' asked Dora. When Sweetclover did not answer she pressed the sword into his breast just far enough to draw a bead of blood through the white of his shirt.

  'Why?' she asked again.

  'A memory,' he said through gritted teeth. 'That is all I know. She wants access to Jana's memories. She has not told me why.'

  Dora only believed half of his answer, but she was conscious that Sweetclover's reinforcements might be arriving any moment and she did not want to push her luck by extending the interrogation any longer than necessary.

  'What did you do to Kaz's mother?' she said.

  'Nothing,' said Sweetclover. 'However, my wife used the mind-writer on her. A simple instruction to stop moving at the crucial moment. She would have had no idea why she was unable to run.'

  Dora grimaced at his callousness. 'But why?' she asked.

  'To flush you out,' he replied. 'To distract you while we moved in on your position. And it worked.'

  'At the cost of the life of an innocent woman,' said Dora, pushing the sword in a little bit further, feeling the slight release of tension as the skin parted around the sharp metal.

  Sweetclover surprised Dora by responding with a sneer. 'If what my wife tells me of your actions on Mars is true,' he said contemptuously, 'you have far more innocent blood on your hands than I.'

  'What has she told you?' asked Dora urgently. Kairos had revealed very little and Dora was not keen, despite all the professor's warnings about the danger of paradoxes, to journey to Mars without knowing what events they would be attempting to undo.

  'Only that many people died, and it was your fault,' he said, regarding her closely. 'I try not to kill, Miss Predennick, unless abso
lutely necessary. I wonder whether you are as scrupulous?'

  'My scruples are not the subject of this discussion,' said Dora coldly.

  Sweetclover's tone softened as he said, 'You have changed so much since we last met. Did I do this to you? My attack upon you, my murder of Mountfort - is that what drove you to become . . . this warrior? If so, I owe you an apology. In 1645, back home, before I left. . . the way I acted was unforgivable. I became enraged and behaved in a manner most cruel. It shames me to recall my actions.'

  Dora considered, not for the first time, the contrast between the furious younger man who had advanced towards her in 1645, his knife dripping with Mountfort's freshly spilt blood, and the older, more solicitous Sweetclover who had welcomed her to 2014. True, they seemed like different men in many ways, but she had always assumed that the violent killer was the real Sweetclover, and the gentle host merely a role he played to put her at ease so he could better manipulate a naive young girl. But as he looked up and met her gaze, looking for a response to his apology, she wondered for the first time whether she had got it the wrong way round. She fancied she saw genuine remorse in his eyes.

  She was having none of it.

  'It is not me to whom you owe the greatest apology,' she said curtly. 'I believe Jana and Mountfort have the strongest cause to seek revenge for your actions that day.'

  Sweetclover blinked in surprise. 'Mountfort lives?'

  'He does.'

  The change that came over Sweetclover was surprising. His posture, his demeanour and bearing all relaxed as if a great burden had been laid down.

  'Then I am, after all, not a murderer.5 He spoke softly, in seeming disbelief.

  'Not for want of trying,5 muttered Dora, spitefully. Sweetclover appeared not to hear her.

  'But this is wonderful. For me it has been seven years since that day. Seven years I have lived with the belief that I killed a wounded man in cold blood. It . . .5 he struggled for the right word. 'It transforms you, killing a person. Makes you think of yourself differently. You wear the mark of Cain and there is nothing in this world or the next that can wipe that stain away. But if what you say is true, then perhaps all is not lost for me. Perhaps my immortal soul may find some peace.5