The Mammoth Book of Time Travel SF

by Mike Ashley

  Yes, okay, so he’d become the proverbial drowning man clutching at straws on the water. Yet this question had started to obsess him: What if the time travel experiment is a success? John knew that he’d eagerly grab at the rarest of chances to save the two people he loved most in the world.

  The show’s producers disabled the comments facility on their website when individuals began to post malicious or downright bizarre responses to the videos:

  Murad Banerjee was blasted by assassins from the future cos he’s a fuckin’ terrorist. Him and his bitch were going to nuke London.

  And: Salvin’s wife isn’t dead. She shacked up with the pilot man, right?

  And this one: They were all transfigured by higher beings: *STENDEC*

  Val Garner, presenter of Impossible, Isn’t It?, had read these comments, and others, including one that accused John Salvin of murdering his family, and then lying about the missing aeroplane. Val promptly emailed the director: Thank God, we’re going to broadcast from the top of Snowdon, otherwise we’d have all kinds of idiots turning up to spoil things BTW I’m still SERIOUSLY worried about interference from the public – can we close footpaths to the summit?

  Be sure to tank-up-your-tum at Pete’s Eats in Llanberis. It’s going to be a LONG day!!!

  Three

  Brothers can reach the essential point of a conversation with a speed that might appear brutal to others. When Robert Salvin visited his brother he immediately asked this question: “Why are you torturing yourself?”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are, John. Just because the plane was never found doesn’t mean that Kerry and Laurel, or even the pilot, are still alive.”

  “I never said they were.”

  As Robert followed John into the lounge he sighed. “But, deep down, you believe that somehow they survived.”

  “The programme’s just about to start.”

  “You have to accept that Kerry and Laurel are dead.”

  “Don’t nag, Robert.”

  “You’re a young man for God’s sake. Find another wife. Father another child.”

  John said nothing. On television, the opening credits rolled for Impossible, Isn’t It? As applause from the studio audience faded Val Garner smiled into the camera. “Good evening. Tonight we’ll present our selection of messages that will be preserved for viewers in the distant future. So, if you’re watching this programme a hundred years from now, or a thousand years from now, I’d like to give you a very warm welcome. And if you have that time machine please, please visit us in person on Saturday, the tenth of July – we will be eagerly awaiting your appearance.”

  Robert harrumphed. “We’re always seeing objects as they were in the past. We never see the moon as it is now—”

  “I’d like to hear the television.”

  “It takes one and a quarter seconds for moonlight to reach the earth. Most stars are thousands of light-years away, so we’re seeing them as they were thousands of years ago.”

  “Robert, you asked to watch this programme with me. Now you’re talking over it.”

  “I don’t want you to entertain unrealistic hopes for the experiment. It’s just a novelty cooked up for television. So . . . any chance of a beer?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Robert paused in the doorway. “You’re my brother. I’d hate for you to be disappointed when this experiment on Mount Snowdon is a flop, as it inevitably will be.”

  “Shush. They’re starting to show the videogrammes.”

  Robert grunted his distaste as he headed for the kitchen. Meanwhile, John kept his focus on the TV. First of all, some comical videos were broadcast; these were the ice-breakers to settle the viewer in for more thoughtful recordings. Soon Robert was back with a glass of beer.

  John pointed at the screen. “I’ve seen this one before. That woman’s husband was murdered. He only went into a fast-food shop to ask for directions.”

  On screen, a dark-haired woman looked deep into the lens. “Dear Tomorrow. My name is Kamana Banerjee. Three years ago, my husband died when he was shot by a stranger. Murad Banerjee was a good man who loved me so much.”

  Robert’s grim expression stated clearly enough that he didn’t approve of the programme. Nevertheless, he remained silent, although the next face that flashed up onscreen startled him so much that beer slopped from the glass on to his lap.

  A familiar voice came from the TV. “Dear Tomorrow. I want to hitch a lift in your time machine, too. My wife, Kerry, and my daughter, Laurel, disappeared five years ago . . .”

  “My God,” Robert gasped in amazement. “They picked you. They actually picked you!”

  Two

  John heard the voice of old on the phone – a voice that managed to interweave sighs of disappointment as his brother, Robert, criticized what he identified as yet another of John’s fatally flawed plans. “So you’re going to prance up to the top of Mount Snowdon? You’re actually going to stand in front of TV cameras so everyone in the country can see you make a damn fool of yourself?”

  “Robert—”

  “You do realize that crap will be broadcast live? This ridiculous time travel experiment’s going to be an embarrassing fiasco.”

  “Robert, what’s the harm in trying?”

  “The harm? You’ll be harmed, John. Do you know why? Everyone in the country will be laughing, as you stand there on the bloody mountain, hoping that A) a time machine is going to land from the future; B) that you’ll hitch a ride back five years ago; and C) that somehow you’re going to stop Kerry and Laurel from boarding a plane which is going to vanish into the sea. God above, John, get real. Quit this fantasy; you’re becoming pathetic.”

  “Ever since we were boys you hated me having something you didn’t.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “You always took my toys off me. I’m not letting you take this away.”

  After hanging up on his brother, John watched the video clip that he’d drily named the Parting Shot, which captured those final images of Kerry and ten-year-old Laurel as they walked toward the waiting aircraft. When the ritual was over John took a walk through the village of Llanberis that nestled between a lake and the foot of Mount Snowdon. A cloudless July evening rendered the summit clearly visible.

  Immediately after his videogramme had been screened on Impossible, Isn’t It? he’d been telephoned by a production assistant, who’d invited him to take part in the live broadcast. Apparently, John’s video was one of thousands uploaded; however, he and just another eleven people had been selected to take part in the televised vigil, which would take place tomorrow evening. The man had explained to John how the minutes would be dramatically counted down to zero hour at nine p.m. That was the moment when everyone hoped the time machine would appear. “Of course, this is a tongue-in-cheek experiment,” the man had confessed. “If time machines are invented in the future, why haven’t we seen them already? After all, the Titanic’s passengers could have been warned, couldn’t they? Someone could have shot Hitler.” When John suddenly went quiet, as he wondered if the entire programme was a practical joke on the viewing public, the man interpreted the silence as another concern. “Don’t worry about the cost. Everyone taking part in the show will be booked into a hotel in Llanberis. We’re covering travel expenses, too. Now, any questions?”

  John Salvin rested both hands on top of the stone wall as he watched the stream flow by. With it being such a warm evening, people were sipping drinks on the hotel lawn. He, however, preferred the solitude of the lane that ran beside the stream. Besides, here he enjoyed a little time travel moment all of his own, because scratched there on the wall were the names of visitors to Llanberis from the past. The oldest was a Billy Smith, RN, who’d carved 1913 after his name. Billy must be long in his grave; yet his personal message to the future had survived, stating clearly that he’d stood here next to the stream in the year before the start of World War I.

  “You look as if you’re asking yourself if you’re doing the
right thing.”

  At the sound of the voice he turned to see a woman with long, black hair.

  “Mrs Banerjee?”

  “We recognize each other from our videogrammes, don’t we, Mr Salvin?”

  “Seeing as we’re both part of what’s supposed to be the greatest experiment of all time then you best call me John.”

  “I’m Kamana.”

  Smiling, they shook hands. After that, they stood in the evening sunshine, chatting about what the production team had planned.

  “Have they told you much about the vigil?” Kamana asked.

  “Not much, other than we head up the mountain tomorrow, and that twelve of us were chosen because of our messages.”

  She flicked back her long hair. “Then we wait for zero hour.”

  “While being shown live on primetime television. Nervous?”

  “You mean, am I afraid of being made a fool of?” She shook her head. “If there is a billion-to-one chance I can somehow save my husband retrospectively, as it were, then I will do whatever it takes.”

  “It’s strange. My head says nobody will miraculously appear from the future. But my heart’s whispering: Maybe, just maybe.”

  “Look, more members of our team.” Kamana nodded in the direction of the High Street where a woman pushed a fragile-looking teenager in a wheelchair. “The girl is Wendy Matlock. Her grandmother asked for drugs to be sent back from the future to cure a terminal illness.”

  “I have a terrible feeling about tomorrow night when we hit zero hour.”

  “You mean if the experiment should fail?”

  “I’m terrified it will be a success. Imagine if people arrive from a thousand years in the future? Nothing in this world will ever be the same again.” John lightly ran his fingers over names etched into the wall by individuals who were probably dead by now. John’s fingertips tingled – he could almost sense the hopes and fears enshrined in the hearts of those who’d stood here before him, and chosen to mark their presence here.

  “John . . . John Salvin!”

  John turned to see a middle-aged man running down the lane. His face streamed with sweat and he was clearly anxious.

  The man stopped ten paces short of them. “John Salvin?” he panted.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God I’ve found you! I’ve arrived a day early.”

  “What?” An emotional electricity snapped along John’s spine.

  “I’m here a day early.” The man sucked in a lungful of air. “I’m from the future.”

  Kamana’s dark eyes were wide with shock.

  The stranger beckoned. “John, hurry. I’ve brought your daughter with me.”

  “My daughter?” John felt as if the ground had opened beneath him.

  “Yes, Laurel’s with me. Your daughter, Laurel! The one who disappeared! For God’s sake, hurry! I can only keep her here for a few more minutes.” He ran back up the hill, shouting for John to follow.

  John raced after him, his heart pounding wildly. He’d run about a hundred paces or so when the man opened the back doors of a van, parked beside the lane.

  “Hurry!” shouted the stranger. “She’s in here! I can’t hold it back for much longer!”

  Laurel’s in there . . . I’m going to see Laurel. She’ll be fifteen now. Will she still recognize me? These thoughts sped through John’s head as he peered into the van’s gloomy interior. God, I don’t want to frighten her . . . she’s come so far . . .

  There, in the back of the vehicle, on a grubby mattress sat a teenage girl, hair tightly scraped back into a pony tail, while her eyes resembled large balls of glass in her gaunt face. She stared back at John without speaking.

  “Laurel?” This seemed like a dream to John. “Laurel, are you all right?”

  “Get in the van,” the stranger ordered. “Get in. Hurry!”

  Just then, a figure hurtled into this bizarre scene, and gripped John’s arm.

  Kamana roared at the stranger. “Go away! If you don’t, I’ll call the police!”

  The man sprinted to the driver’s seat. Seconds later, the van screeched away.

  John shook his head in confusion. “That didn’t look like Laurel . . .’ He shrugged, utterly baffled.

  “John.” Kamana took his hand. “Forget about those two. They’ll have been trying to get money out of you.”

  “He used my daughter’s name. He knew her.”

  “No, he didn’t, John. He watched your video on television, just as millions of others have done. He’s a bad man; he was trying to exploit you.”

  John allowed himself to be led back to the main street. Only then did he realize that Kamana still held his hand.

  “Sorry.” He began to feel his old self again. “For a minute back there, I was in a state of shock.”

  “Don’t worry.” She smiled. “We’re getting a lot of attention. Look at all those people.”

  John had assumed that Llanberis was always this busy on a Friday evening. However, he realized that the people in the cars, which trundled bumper-to-bumper along the street, from the direction of the mountain railway station all the way to Pete’s Eats, were watching not only John and Kamana with fascination, but the girl in the wheelchair and other individuals whose videogrammes had being broadcast on Impossible, Isn’t It? Many began to wave from the cars.

  “My God,” breathed John. “We’re famous, aren’t we?” He waved back. “We’re actually famous.”

  Kamana waved, too. “And depending on what happens twenty-four hours from now, we might become the most famous people on the planet.”

  One

  The next morning John Salvin found Kamana sitting alone in the hotel dining room. The place buzzed with film crew, production staff, invited journalists and those members of the public who had been chosen to take part in the show, and who hoped that futurity would hear their prayer . . . or, rather, their messages from the here and now.

  John smiled. “Good morning, Kamana. Mind if I join you for breakfast?”

  “Good morning, John. I was hoping you would.”

  A waiter appeared for their order. Kamana chose fruit, cereals and tea; John ordered a full cooked breakfast and coffee. Prospects for the day ahead excited him, and that excitement had ignited a ferocious appetite.

  When the plate arrived heaped with sausages, fried eggs, tomatoes and succulent mushrooms he said, “Weren’t you tempted by all this?” He attacked the steaming food.

  “Holy Cow.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The sausages are beef.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t . . . oh.” The proverbial penny dropped.

  “That’s right. I’m Hindu . . . a case of Hindus vis-à-vis cows.”

  “So you don’t eat cow – sorry, I mean beef.” He pushed the sausages to one side.

  “Thank you for being so considerate, but go ahead, enjoy your breakfast.”

  He realized she was touched by his gesture of not eating beef sausage in front of her; that, in turn, touched something deep inside of him. He realized he liked Kamana. What’s more, he hadn’t thanked her properly for saving him from the conman, or drug addict, or whatever the stranger was yesterday.

  “Kamana,” he began, “we’re here until Monday, so I wondered if you’d have lunch with me tomorrow?” Her expression revealed that she was examining his invitation from different angles. Subtext as well as overt meaning. “We could drive down to Caernarfon.”

  The moment she opened her mouth to reply was the moment a scream killed all the conversations in the room stone dead. People in the act of eating suddenly froze. A woman brandished a long-bladed knife as she advanced through the tables toward one occupied by the show’s director. John recognized the lady with the knife. Yesterday, she’d pushed her sick granddaughter through Llanberis in a wheelchair.

  “The experiment’s been hijacked!” the woman shrieked. “They’re working for the government! Even if people do arrive from the future we won’t be allowed to see them. Wendy needs medici
ne to keep her alive. She won’t get it! We’ve all been tricked into helping with this experiment, and we’re going to get nothing for ourselves!”

  She lunged at the director; the knife flashed in the air. Plates and cutlery seemed to explode from tables nearby as the production team leapt up to tackle the woman. Within seconds she was bundled sobbing out of the room. Fortunately, nobody seemed to have been hurt during the attack, and soon spilt teas and coffees were being mopped up by the hotel staff.

  The show’s presenter, Val Garner, appeared. “I’m terribly sorry about that. Wendy Matlock was taken poorly last night, so she can’t participate in our vigil. Don’t worry, I’m sure everything will be all right and Wendy will be feeling better soon.” She smiled warmly, confident that the force of her personality had restored calm. “So, ladies and gentlemen, here we are at last: D-Day as it were. I’m sure you’re all looking forward to this evening as much as I am.” She checked her watch. “The countdown has begun. We’re just thirteen hours from Zero Hour.”

  Twelve people were due to take part in the vigil. Now the number had been reduced to eleven. Later that morning, John Salvin strolled across the hotel lawn in the company of the decidedly attractive Kamana Banerjee. Both gazed up at the summit of Mount Snowdon as clouds parted to reveal that enormous body of rock – one that resembled the humped back of a colossal beast rising up above the Welsh landscape.

  “Eleven hours until Zero Hour,” murmured John.

  Just for a second, Kamana reached out to take his hand before releasing it again. A little fix of reassurance? A physical signal that this lovely woman was at ease with him? He wondered if reading body language was a precise science. Meanwhile, the now famous time-travel experiment had well and truly caught the public’s imagination. Cars streamed into the village to choke its High Street and side roads. He decided that whatever the result of the experiment tonight, the next few hours were about to become extremely interesting.

  A prediction that was reinforced by Kamana suddenly turning to him and saying, “Thank you for the invitation to lunch in Caernarfon tomorrow, John. Yes, I’d love to come.”