“Oh, God,” Spider said, feeling ill, thinking about all the Masadans he’d met, who hung in there when everything seemed lost, like Cavers and Raspa and Peel and Wendy, all the rest. Soldier Spider couldn’t have known that his death would undo all his good work, could he? Could he? The idea haunted him. But if Spider went on to become Soldier Spider, then he’d surely remember getting this letter from Dickhead announcing this great victory, this terrible collapse. Right? How could he kill himself, knowing it would lead to Dickhead’s victory?
He slumped against the wall, staring into space, deeply troubled.
Dickhead wasn’t finished. He said in his final paragraph, “I should also inform you, Spider, that you owe me a small favor.”
“Oh, shit, here it comes,” Spider said.
“To put matters bluntly, my friend, that stupid girl did actually kill you. You were dead. You died in the ambulance taking you to the hospital that night. You’d fallen off the perch, you were pining for the fjords, you were dead, Spider. Your heart was shredded, I believe the doctors said. Shredded. Think of it.”
“Oh, no, no, no…”
“So I tweaked things a little, from up here. It was no problem. Done it before, probably do it again, doesn’t hurt anybody. Anyway, we shifted a few threads about, jiggled things here and jaggled things there, and suddenly, no more shredded heart. You were still in bad shape, but they could, just barely, fix you up. It was the subtlest of things, Spider. It’s amazing what you can do from here if there’s no other bastards trying to interfere. (Ha-ha) So, I think you’d agree, my friend, that you owe me one, yes? Yes, I can see you nodding from here, I truly can. I kept thinking, Poor Spider. If he dies he’ll never find out about the Final Secret. He’ll go to his final rest unenlightened. And you are my best worker, Spider. I’ve always said that, and I’ve always had big things in mind for you, oh yes I have. I haven’t forgotten, you mark my words. So, anyway, it’s like this, Spider: I’ll be in touch.”
The letter fell from Spider’s hands.
He spent the remaining portion of the afternoon out in the workshop, working on time machines, trying to forget, but could not. The work was strictly routine. Swap out busted component A, plug in new component B, reassemble and test. He brooded, thinking about Dickhead’s letter, feeling the weight of the universe pressing him down. He was supposed to be finished with all that bullshit! he told himself. It was over! He’d got Molly back.
Charlie asked him how it felt to be back at work, and Spider had to fight back the urge to yell at the kid and tell him it was, maybe, not so good after all, you might say. Instead, he said, after a moment, “Just the same, you know.”
That night, time to go, clear skies for once, a nice breeze wafting in from the ocean, Spider shut down the shop, locked up, went outside into the parking area and climbed into his bike. He pedaled out onto Inverness, looked both ways — and saw that damned Sony car just sitting there. The guy in the driver’s seat looked kind of familiar, Spider thought. He sat there, looking at the guy in the car a moment, pissed off, and got out of the bike, let it fall over on the road with a clatter, and went over to have a quiet word with the driver—
But as soon as Spider got to within shouting distance, the car vanished, the driver flicking him a “be seeing you” salute he remembered only too well from ancient TV shows like The Prisoner. He stood there on the empty road, staring this way and that, and finally up at the doomed, unwelcoming stars. The Vores, he thought, seething, can’t get here fast enough.
Details
Time Machines Repaired-While-U-Wait
Copyright © 2008 by K. A. Bedford
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by
EDGE Science Fiction and Fantasy Publishing
An Imprint of
HADES PUBLICATIONS, INC.
P.O. Box 1714, Calgary, Alberta, T2P 2L7, Canada
In House Editing by Matt Hughes
Illustration by Rachel Haupt
e Book ISBN: 978-1-894063-73-9
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Time Machines Repaired While-U-Wait Page 35