The Mammoth Book of Time Travel SF

by Mike Ashley

  “Tennis shoes? I’ll have you know these are Nikes!”

  “Nikes?” he repeated, obviously confused. “But I thought you must be wearing heels . . .” His eyes moved upwards along my body, finally stopping at my eyes. “Joanna, I don’t understand what’s going on.” Neither do I, I felt like saying, but I didn’t get the chance because he carried straight on without a pause. “How could you possibly be taller?”

  “Taller than who?”

  “Than you were when I left you this morning. And you’re thinner, too.”

  “Ha! Don’t I wish.” I took my hand out of the drawer. The guy didn’t seem violent, just confused. And standing as close to him as I was, something about the guy was awfully familiar. I thought, I know him. If I could just see past the bald patch and the beer gut, and concentrate on the voice and the eyes, I knew it would come back to me. Then it hit me.

  “Bobby!” I said, “Bobby Callahan! You took me to my senior prom.”

  His eyes went very wide. “Yes, dear,” he said cautiously, “why are you bringing that up now?”

  “I didn’t recognize you at first; it’s been a long time. It’s gotta be twenty-five years. No, closer to thirty. God, Bobby, I can’t believe it! So what are you doing with yourself these days?” I reached out to shake his hand.

  Bobby went ever so pale. “Joanna, darling. I think you should lie down.”

  A few minutes later, I was leaning against a stack of frilly pillows, embroidered with sayings like “I Love Mom” and “Home Is Where The Heart Is”, on one of a pair of narrow twin beds, separated by a twee little night table with two separate lamps and two individual wind-up alarm clocks, listening to Bobby clatter around in the kitchen below. He obviously wasn’t used to cooking. My sudden appearance in the pantry apparently hadn’t surprised him at all, but the fact that I hadn’t made dinner seemed a shock beyond belief.

  There was a loud crash, an “Ouch!” and a “Dammit!”, then footsteps moving back up the stairs. Bobby poked his head into the bedroom and said he was driving down to the Chinese. The last thing he told me was that I should try and get some sleep.

  I jumped up the minute I heard the downstairs door close; I had no intention of hanging around until he came back. Then the wardrobe doors flew wide open, and a hand shoved me back onto the mattress.

  For the second time in less than ten minutes, I found myself staring open-mouthed at someone with my face. This one was even dressed the same as me: the same jeans, same T-shirt, same Nike sneakers. She had the same blunt haircut, the same shade of Flickering Flame. “Snap!” she said.

  I raised my head and took a long, careful look at her. I noticed two slight differences between us: she had a blue canvas shoulder-bag draped across her arm, and a bad case of sunburn. The sunburn looked painful; the skin on her nose was peeling.

  “Who are you?” I said. “Is this your house?”

  “Let me address your second question first. If this was my house, do you really think I would be hiding in the wardrobe? And as to your first: who do you think I am? I know it’s a little difficult, so I’ll give you a clue. Who do I look like?”

  “Like me?”

  “Bingo!” she said, “You got it in one.” She flopped down on the other bed, stretching her arms high over her head. “God, my back is killing me!”

  I swung my legs around and sat up, facing the other bed.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’re saying that you’re me?”

  She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one arm. “That’s one way of putting it. Though as far as I’m concerned, it’s you that’s me, not me that’s you. A subtle distinction, I admit, but a significant one. To me, at least.” There was something slightly different about her voice, too. It was a little deeper than mine, and a little harsher, as if she wanted to scream but was struggling to control herself. I guess the fact I didn’t understand a word she was saying showed on my face, because she gave me a look of pure disgust. “Don’t tell me you don’t get it! Look, I’m an alternate you from a parallel universe, capiche?”

  I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. “A parallel universe?” I said. “Then how the hell did you get here?”

  She got up and started looking through the various jars and bottles on the dresser. She opened one of the jars and spread some cream on her face. “How do you think I got here? The same way as you: inside that damn machine of Toni’s. She made one in my universe as well, you know. A slightly better one, if you don’t mind me saying so; I’ve seen yours down in the pantry, and it does look a bit poor.”

  I got up and stood by the window, watching wives in cotton dresses calling children and husbands in for dinner, and I knew this wasn’t my universe, either. “So this is what the universe would have been like if I’d married Bobby Callahan.”

  “Oh get real!” the other Joanna said, disgusted. “Cultural and scientific stagnation is the basis of this type of universe, not who married Bobby Callahan.”

  “I don’t understand how I got here. Toni’s machine was supposed to send me forward in time, not sideways through space.”

  “That wasn’t the machine’s fault; it was that woman!”

  “Woman? What woman?”

  Her hands tightened into fists and her eyes became narrow slits. “The bitch that set the timer on Toni’s machine to go backwards. Don’t you see? As long you only move forward, you remain in the same universe. But if you try to go backwards, even by a fraction of a second, you end up in a parallel world. They tell me this is to stop you murdering your grandmother so you were never born. Anyway, she set the timer backwards on purpose to get me out of the way, so she could take over my life in my universe.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because she told me! I met her. I talked to her; she’s living in my studio, and I tell you she’s ruined it. Cleared out all my stuff, and covered every available space with pictures of flowers and kittens. Disgusting!”

  I sank down onto the nearest bed. “What did she look like?”

  “Like me with grey hair and a perm, dressed in my mother’s clothes. She’s an alternate me from one of these oppressive suburban worlds and now she’s living it up in mine, spending my money, using my name and reputation to exhibit her nauseating little pictures at all the best galleries.”

  Suddenly it all made sense. The woman in my studio, talking about a switch. “I’ve met her, too. She slammed the capsule door down on my head and the next thing I knew I was here.”

  “Isn’t that always the way?” said the other Joanna, nodding in sympathy.

  “But I still don’t understand. I mean, how did she get there in the first place?”

  “I have a theory about that,” said the other Joanna. “I think one of us – meaning one in a world where Toni has invented a time machine – pushed the wrong button and went back by accident, maybe by only a couple of seconds. She ended up in a world like this one, and came face to face with her parallel self, a housewife who always dreamed of being an artist but never did anything about it. The Joanna like us explained who she was and how she got there. The parallel Joanna saw her chance at wealth and fame and stole the machine, leaving the other one stranded. Maybe this happened more than once, and one of these parallel Joannas ended up in your world and one in mine.”

  “Well, Toni will know what to do when she gets here.”

  “Toni? Here?”

  “Yeah, she phoned just a little while ago. She said she was on her way over.”

  “Oh, you mean the Toni that lives here. You can forget about any help from that direction. Not the right sort of Toni.”

  “The right sort?”

  “I’ve met most of the Tonis you get in this sort of world. Sometimes she’s a widow with a grown-up son – usually in the army – sometimes she’s a librarian, and if you’re really lucky, she might be a high school science teacher.”

  “You’ve been in other worlds like this one?”

  “Sure. I’ve b
een in loads of ’em. I always arrive on the same date: 29 April, 1994, and the same time: just after 6 p.m. Because that’s when the first switch took place – in one of this infinite number of universes. And eventually, I’m going to be there when that first switch is about to happen, and I’m going to stop it before it does, and then none of this will ever have happened.”

  “How will you stop it happening?”

  She smiled, patting the canvas bag that still hung from her shoulder. “I have my methods.”

  So she was going to make everything all right again. I should have been thrilled, but I couldn’t help feeling resentful; I didn’t like being made to feel stupid. Maybe I hadn’t grasped all the nuances of quantum theory, and instantly figured out what was going on and how to fix it, but I was still a famous artist, and very rich. Didn’t that count for anything anymore?

  “I’m having an affair with a twenty-two year-old male model,” I said, leaning back on the bed. “We might even do a TV commercial together; they want him to play a gorgeous young man at an exhibition opening, and me to play myself. Then he picks up a bottle of . . .”

  “Shut up!” she said.

  “Ooh, hit a sore point, have I? In my world, I’m often seen with much younger men.”

  “Will you be quiet? There’s somebody coming.” She moved to one side of the window, flattening herself against the wall.

  “Who is it?” I whispered, sitting up.

  She raised a finger to her mouth to signal silence. I got up and headed for the window.

  “Get back!” she hissed, then mouthed the words, “It’s her.”

  I flattened myself against the wall on the other side of the window from her, and peered cautiously around the frame. A woman was walking towards the house, struggling with several large shopping bags. She had my face. I looked across to the other Joanna, and saw her reach inside her canvas bag and take out a gun. She reached in again, and took out a silencer.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered.

  She ignored me, raising the gun and taking aim at a defenceless woman. I couldn’t stand by and let this happen; I picked up one of those twee little table lamps, and broke it over her head. The gun went off, missing the woman, but sending a bullet tearing through one of her shopping bags, spilling groceries all over the pavement. The Joanna that married her high school sweetheart stopped in her tracks, staring at the shredded bag. “Move!” I shouted. “She’ll kill you!”

  Unfortunately, the lamp didn’t knock my other self out; it just made her mad. She swung around, blood streaming from several cuts on her scalp, and pointed the gun right at me. “You stupid bitch! I fucking had her!”

  “You were going to kill her!”

  “I’ll kill every one of them, until I get the right one. And no one’s going to stop me.”

  I swung my right leg back and around, kicking the gun from her hand just as it went off a second time, sending chunks of plaster flying from the wall beside her. I’d taken a course in jiujitsu about fifteen years earlier, and this was the first time I’d ever used it. Of course she’d taken it, too, and two seconds later I was being thrown head first over her shoulder. I landed on the bedroom floor with a thud, and looked up to see my other self with a gun once more pointed at my head. She was smiling. “It isn’t murder, you know. It’s more like suicide by proxy.”

  I closed my eyes, and waited to die. There was a sound like an explosion, and I thought, is that it? Am I dead? Then I thought, that can’t be it; I’ve got a lap full of glass.

  I opened my eyes again, and saw a grey-haired woman with my face, holding what was left of the second table lamp. Bobby was right; she was about an inch or two shorter than me, and maybe five pounds heavier. She reached down and picked the gun up from the floor beside the other, unconscious, Joanna, and pointed it at me. “I think you owe me an explanation, don’t you?”

  I told her everything. She didn’t believe me of course, until I showed her the two metal eggs in her pantry. “I’m a bit of an artist myself,” she said. “One of my paintings was in an exhibition at the town hall. Maybe you’d like to have a look at some of my paintings later; they’re up in the attic.”

  Then there was the problem of what to do with the other Joanna. When we went back up to the bedroom, she was starting to wake up. “Wha’?” she said, “What happened? Where am I?” Joanna Callahan and I stood on either side of the bed where we’d left her firmly tied down with a length of laundry-line. She looked from one side of the bed to the other. “Who are you guys supposed to be, the Bobsey Twins?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have hit her so hard,” said Joanna Callahan.

  “I’d be dead if you hadn’t,” I reminded her.

  “And so would I, if what you say is true,” she sighed.

  “What’s going on?” said Joanna on the bed. “Who are you bozos?”

  “Don’t you know me?” I asked her.

  “I never saw you in my life!”

  “Do you know who you are?” Joanna Callahan asked her.

  “Of course I do! I’m . . .” She frowned in concentration. “Oh shit.”

  “You stay with her,” Joanna Callahan told me. “I’ll just run and get my first aid kit from the kitchen.”

  Before I could think to ask her what she had in a first aid kit for amnesia, she was gone.

  “Why don’t I remember who I am?” asked Joanna on the bed.

  “You’ve had a nasty crack on the head,” I told her. “You fell down the stairs.”

  “Why am I all tied up?”

  “To keep you from falling down again. Stay there, I’ll be right back.” I ran downstairs to the kitchen. The pantry door was open, and there was only one metal egg: the one I came in. Joanna Callahan had stolen the nicer one, with the padded lining.

  “Bitch!” I shouted, kicking the refrigerator. “Fucking bitch!”

  Then Joanna upstairs started screaming for help. She was making a hell of a racket; someone would call the police if she kept that up. I ran back up the stairs and found the bed tipped over onto its side, and Joanna wriggling around on the floor, trying to break loose. “Help!” she kept screaming, “Somebody help me!”

  The front doorbell rang, and Joanna started screaming even louder. I stuffed a pillowcase down her mouth; that shut her up. The doorbell kept ringing and I heard a woman’s voice call my name. “Joanna! Open up! Are you okay?” Toni. I grabbed a scarf out of the wardrobe to hide my Flickering Flame hair, then I ran to the window. “Toni!” I called down, faking a yawn. “Sorry, I must have been asleep.”

  A large, dark-haired woman wearing a brown cardigan sweater over a white blouse and brown skirt looked up from the street. She was wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses so thick they reminded me of Mister Magoo. She had “small town librarian” written all over her. Definitely not the right sort of Toni.

  “Joanna, are you all right? I thought I heard you screaming for help!” Joanna with the pillowcase in her mouth was trying to stand up with a bed tied to her back.

  “I was having the worst nightmare! Hold on, I’ll be right down.” I ran down the stairs to the kitchen, then remembered something and ran back up again. The other Joanna was squirming around more than ever, making a lot of “Hmph!” and “MMMMMM!” sort of noises. I had to admire her determination. “Don’t worry, Joanna. Someone will untie you in a minute, I promise. But it won’t be me.” I put the gun back inside her blue canvas bag, and slung it over my shoulder.

  I was halfway down the stairs when I heard Toni say, “Bob! Thank God you’re home! There’s something wrong with Joanna!” I reached the bottom just as his key turned in the lock. By the time they reached the bedroom, I was already in the pantry, squeezing myself back inside my uncomfortable, unpadded, metal egg. There was a lot of screaming and shouting going on upstairs.

  I heard Toni say she was calling the police, and then I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. I pulled the capsule door down over my head, and stared at a row of unlabelled buttons. I didn’t
have the slightest idea which one to press, so I pressed them all. I heard Toni’s voice outside the capsule, saying, “What the . . .” and then I was ripped into a million pieces.

  I pushed the door open and found myself staring up at a cactus. I was dizzy and more than a little nauseous; I waited for the cactus to stop spinning before I tried to sit up. The moment I raised my head, the cactus started whirling again, faster than ever. I’d been broken down and reassembled for the third time in less than half an hour, and I didn’t think my body could take a fourth; at least not yet. I pulled myself out of the capsule, fell to my knees, and vomited onto scorching hot dust. I crawled on all fours towards a clump of stunted bushes a few yards away, and rested in the tiny patch of shade they provided.

  I don’t know how long I was there; I think I must have fallen asleep. All I know is when I opened my eyes again, a man was standing over me, his face a mixture of surprise and concern. “You all right?” he said. He had white hair down to his shoulders, a full white beard, a round face with chubby red cheeks, sparkling brown eyes, and an enormous belly. Santa Claus in blue jeans.

  “No, I’m not all right. I feel like hell and I don’t have the slightest idea where I am.”

  The man knelt down beside me. “My house is just the other side of that hill. Don’t try to move; I’ll carry you.”

  “No, it’s okay. I can walk.”

  “Now you just lean on me,” he said, helping me to my feet. “And don’t you worry ’bout a thing; my old lady’ll get you fixed up in no time. She’ll be interested to see you. Real interested, I’ll tell you that for nothing.”

  “What do you mean, interested?”

  “You’ll see. Believe you me, you’ll see.”

  A pair of large dogs – one black, one brown – lunged forward to greet us as we approached a large adobe house painted in a myriad of colours. Each of the outside walls was like a mural, one side adorned with children running through a field, another with a cityscape of high-rise buildings lit by a reddish-gold setting sun, another a series of geometric shapes in primary colours. Behind the house was another building, a bright red barn almost as big as the house.