He smirks. “No worries. I’m not going to try to steal your girl.”
“I doubt she goes for old dudes anyway.”
“Kaylee hasn’t complained.”
“Yeah, well, Kaylee is hardly the paradigm of good judgment.”
The other me smiles. “I could think of a comeback, but any insults you make to me are really just insults about you, too, so I guess there’s no need.”
I smile back. “Fair point.” I pull the motorcycle key out of my pocket. “My bike’s out front. Where’s Kaylee’s place?”
It turns out that the apartment Kaylee moved to is near the marina, ensconced in the Old Southeast neighborhood. The brick streets and old trees resemble those in my own neighborhood, but this southern incarnation sports a few more houses in need of work and a few with overgrown yards. I turn into a dirt alley and park behind a 1920s home that has been converted to apartments. Kaylee lives in the downstairs of the blue-and-white, wood-sided house. The back porch is cluttered with cheap patio furniture and a full ashtray sits atop one of the tables.
“Who else lives here?” I point to the ashtray. “Kaylee didn’t start smoking, did she?”
“She always has friends hanging out here. You remember how she was. Social butterfly.”
Other Me leads the way into the back of the house. I get the lingering scent of pot mixed with something floral. We find the flowers a moment later when we enter the living room. A bouquet of roses has been delivered and is sitting on the coffee table.
“From you?” I ask.
“Shit no. Roses are tacky. Whoever got those doesn’t know her very well.”
“Yeah, I remember her being more the wildflower type. Looks like you have some competition anyway.”
“Whatever,” the other me scoffs, but his face has darkened slightly. “Come on. It’s in here.”
Kaylee’s bedroom is decorated much the same as the apartment I remember. The bed is piled with pillows and everything is neat and tidy. The corners of her dresser and her writing desk host small potted plants. Other Me goes straight for the desk, pulling open the top drawer and, as he rummages for his chronometer’s hiding place, tosses various items onto the top—a deck of cards, a container of buttons, a yellow legal pad.
My vision suddenly darkens and grows light again. My view of the top of the desk flashes back and forth from cluttered to mostly empty, and I’m somehow seeing Kaylee’s old apartment, blinking between the two views as fast as someone flicking a light switch on and off. What the hell? I try to orient this strange set of visions. What is he showing me now? One scene has the older me rooting through the desk. In the other, the desk is bare with the exception of the yellow note pad. As the views shift back and forth, words and symbols keep appearing and disappearing on the page. There. Heavy-handed sketches and a repeated underlined word. Zurvan. I’m brought back to reality by the other me stepping in front of the legal pad.
“Whoa, man. You okay?” His arm finds mine as I teeter, and he steadies me on my feet.
“I’m—I’m good.” The bed seems like a better option than falling over so I take a seat.
“You look like shit.”
“That’s what it felt like, too.”
“You okay?”
I don’t really know how to sum up the current circumstances my mind is dealing with. Despite the fact that this person I’m talking to is me, he’s been living a different life for the past few years. Our similarities no doubt outnumber our differences, but that doesn’t make the differences less significant.
I don’t know how to begin explaining the version of me—version of us—that I saw go missing at the end of the chronothon. Explaining that this other version of me has been sending messages from beyond the grave is even farther beyond my abilities to put into words. I take the easy way out and simply nod. “I’m fine. Did you find the chronometer?”
He holds the chronometer up in his palm. I recognize it as the first one I ever used. Doctor Quickly has seen fit to get me some upgrades since. My current incarnation looks similar, but I’ve added a couple of parts and it’s tuned to make farther jumps. The original version could only jump a year on its own, a bit farther plugged in. I have to respect that this other me found a way home from the 1980s using it. He may have taken some detours and taken years to do it, but he survived. That is no small feat in the time traveling business.
I’m curious about his story, but right now I just want to go home and unravel this mess in my mind. I hold out my palm for the chronometer. Other Me, to his credit, hesitates only briefly before placing it in my hand. I brush my thumb across the shiny concentric rings on top. “I’ll take good care of it for you. It will be there if you need it.”
“Good riddance as far as I’m concerned.” He shoves the contents of the drawer back inside and slams it shut. “What now?”
I ease myself off the bed and back to my feet, making sure I’m steady. The mental displacement seems to have passed. I take one lingering glance at the desk drawer, but am not tempted to look at its contents again. I remember what I saw.
“I’m going to head home. I’ll fill the others in on the situation so they aren’t surprised.”
“Blake and Francesca?”
“Yeah. And Mym.”
“She going to be around a lot?” Other Me frowns.
“Some. And I actually have another houseguest at the moment, in case you run into him. Friend I met in the future. He’s a little . . . well, you’ll see. Hoping he’s not staying for long.”
“Full house.”
“Yeah. Things are getting a little crowded.”
“You ready for this?” He gestures back and forth between the two of us. “It’s weird, right?”
“Not as weird as I would have thought.” I consider him for a moment, then hold out a fist and he bumps it. “We’ll figure it out.” I head for the door. “Call me if you need me.”
“Can’t. You’ve got the phone.”
I pause at the doorway. “We’ll get another one. We’ll see if the phone company has an option for that. The family or other selves plan. Whole new market for them.”
The other me smiles. “See you around, Mr. Travers.”
“Ditto.”
As the door closes behind me, I pause to look at the chronometer in my palm. This is going to be interesting.
By the time I park the motorcycle back in my garage, the clock on the wall reads ten past six. I’ve missed most of the day. It’s a solvable problem.
I hang my motorcycle key on a hook on the wall and remove my cell phone this time before I set my chronometer. I recall that Tucket had said I didn’t come back right away in the morning so I dial my settings to more or less match the real time I have spent away, and use my toolbox as my anchor. When I blink back to the garage that morning, the place is quiet. I trot up the stairs.
“You lived!” Tucket grins immediately upon seeing me.
“Safe and sound.”
Mym is in the kitchen, puttering around with something that smells of butter and garlic.
“More cooking lessons?” I ask.
“Figured it wouldn’t hurt for you to have a few meals available in this place.” Mym checks on something in the oven. “Especially since you have guests. Did you find out what you needed to?”
I retrieve my logbook from my bedroom and return to the kitchen table to jot down the times of my morning’s worth of jumps. I lay the pen on top of the logbook and rest a hand on the table. “I actually have a few things to talk to you about. My morning got a little complicated. Tucket would you mind giving us a few minutes of privacy?”
“Fifteen? Twenty?” Tucket wipes his fingers off on the kitchen dish towel.
I look Mym in the eyes as I respond. “Let’s go for a full hour.”
“Okay, save my spot.” Tucket taps out a sequence on his Temprovibe, then places a hand to the wall near the refrigerator. He adopts an Arnold Schwarzenegger accent for his parting comment. “Hasta la vista, baby.” Th
e next moment he’s gone.
Mym glances at the spot where Tucket has vanished, then turns her eyes back to me. “Sounds like you have something serious to talk about.”
I keep my eyes locked on hers. “I think it’s time that you tell me what happened to the others.”
Mym studies the logbook at my fingertips for a moment before responding. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“I have to know.” I pull the other Ben’s chronometer out of my pocket and hold it out to her. “They’re starting to come home.”
Chapter 5
“A common misconception about throwing cocktail parties for time travelers is the expectation that guests will arrive on time. To the contrary, the first half hour of your event is often reserved for shooing away inebriated time travelers who have already enjoyed your party and are intent on reliving it.” -Journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 2130.
The Neverwhere
It’s time to experiment.
I might be a ghost, but that doesn’t mean the laws of the universe have stopped working. Wherever I am, this place should have rules like any other. Sitting on Kaylee’s front stoop, I’ve listed the things I know so far on the yellow sheet of paper, underneath the drawing of the winged sun.
1. There is less fog in places I’ve been frequently—no fog where I’ve lived.
2. Kaylee’s apartment is decorated from six months ago, how I remember it, even though I know she moved.
3. There are other people here. One vanished. One did something to make her vanish. One ran away.
4. The scenery can change.
I stare at the meager list and try to come up with any logical deductions. The first two items are the most promising. There seems to be a connection between places I’ve been able to get to so far. I’ve only been able to navigate to places I’ve been before. Easy enough to test.
I get off the step, pick up my bat, and head for the fog that lingers in the intersection at the far side of the apartment. I consult the street sign. I usually approached Kaylee’s apartment from my place, so this side of the neighborhood is not somewhere I spent much time. Sure enough, the fog in this direction is dense, clinging to the frames of houses and walling off the spaces between them. Looking back the other way I can see all the way to the end of the block. Okay. What else do I remember in this direction?
After a few moments I recall that Kaylee took piano lessons from a girl who lived on the other side of the alley, perhaps a block down. I had picked her up there once or twice. If my memory is correct, I should be able to cut through the yard of one of these places, hit the next road and make it there.
Walking up to the space between the nearest two houses, I test the fog with my bat, then take a cautious step forward. I’ve definitely never been this route before. The fog surrounds me as soon as I’m out of view from the street. I can see it vaguely behind me, but as I continue onward, the nothingness swallows me up. I keep my bat ahead of me, probing the fog. It’s silent this time. No whispers. No voices. Making me wonder if I really heard them before at all.
It makes no significant difference if I keep my eyes open or shut. My options are darkness or iridescent nothing. I walk for what I imagine to be around fifty yards, then things start to clear. I make out vague shapes of roofs and some porches. I find the street. All the buildings are lacking definition, even the ones I’m close to. I walk right up to one, but can’t make out any additional detail. I wonder if this is what it’s like to be going blind—everything a hazy blur.
I head west toward the piano teacher’s apartment building. It appears from the fog like a ship, a solitary figure in a barren sea. I can make out the top of the piano in an upstairs window.
It worked.
I can go places I remember.
I consult my list and put a checkmark next to item one.
The second item on the list seems like the next variable to figure out. Kaylee’s apartment was decorated the way I remember it, not the way it would have looked when I died. Looking up at the piano teacher’s apartment, I have to admit that it looks the same as I recall as well. I have no idea whether the piano teacher still lives there or not, so it’s hard to say if my experience of the place is concurrent with reality. I need a different location to experiment on. I try to remember something in the area that shouldn’t exist anymore. After a few minutes of contemplation, I head for my bank.
Fourth Street and all of downtown have been in a constant state of renewal since I’ve lived here. Restaurants changed hands or changed names. Bars and even the Cineplex have evolved. The closest change I can think of is the new Chase bank across the street from the Tijuana Flats. Until recently, it’s been a weedy lot with an old oak tree. They chopped the tree down and hacked it into firewood. I have a memory of standing there watching the men cutting the tree up. I was sad to see it go. It had been a good-looking tree.
When I get to the corner of Ninth and Fourth Streets, I slow down. There is no sign of the destruction I saw before. No sign of the futuristic St. Petersburg or the ruined one. There is only a Starbucks on the corner in all of its generic glory. I pause before rounding the corner of the Starbucks and try to imagine what I’ll see across the street. With the girl getting taken from the deteriorating church in front of my eyes, I didn’t have time to notice the buildings around her. I concentrate on the visual of the old tree where it stood, and step around the corner.
It’s there.
No bank.
I stare at the oak tree, its lofty branches reaching for the sky.
It shouldn’t exist. I saw it chopped down. What does that mean for me? For one, this place isn’t real. That much is certain. The thought gives me a queasy feeling of impermanence. If nothing around me is real, am I? I’m suspicious now and study my hands, one holding the softball bat, half-afraid that by simply acknowledging the fragility of my situation, I might blink out of existence. I certainly feel solid, but have I ever felt any other way?
I do a mental inventory of my body. I’m not hungry. Not especially thirsty or tired. Should I be? I place a pair of fingers to my wrist and feel for a pulse. At first I feel nothing, but after pressing harder, get the steady pumping against my fingertip. Does that prove anything? I’ve never not had a pulse. What would that feel like? My head swims with possibilities. Is this all some abstract dream?
The situation is beginning to stress me out. I walk over to one of the patio tables at the Tijuana Flats restaurant and sit down. If this experience I’m having is made up of only places I remember, what was that girl doing here? I know I’ve never met her. Certainly never met the storm guy either. I stare at my list again, running down to the last item.
Scenery can change.
I look up and stare at the old oak. Can I remember it another way? I close my eyes and concentrate, imagining the new bank building that replaced it, with its shiny blue logo on the sign. I get it firmly in my mind and open my eyes.
The scene is different.
True to my imagination, the bank building has appeared in the lot across the street. Unlike the reality I remember, however, the tree is still there too. Long elegant branches are still protruding from the top of the bank, swaying gently in a non-existent breeze.
Damn. What does that mean? I get out of my chair and walk into the street, taking a better look at this odd amalgamation of my memories. The trunk is protruding solidly from the roof of the building, casting shade onto the parking lot. Not how I remember things, but how it would look if the two different times overlapped. Interesting.
I’m still staring at the branches overhead when I feel something cold on my legs. I look down to find I’m standing in two feet of water. What the hell? Where did this come from? I look up to find the scene around me has changed again. No longer am I looking at the Saint Petersburg of 2009. The city is back in ruins—if it can even be called a city.
The bank has vanished, quicker than a thought, like everything I knew had never even been. All around me is the rubble and skeletal
frames of once monstrous buildings. There is something stretched out across the sky like a sail. The remnants of the solar array. The landscape is scarred and ruined—a post apocalyptic war zone. My stubborn oak tree still rises from the water, but everything I recognized around it is gone.
The interior of the church is visible again, the small square room with four arched openings, one on each side, facing the cardinal directions. Through the nearest arch I can see the fire burning at the center of the single room.
Dark clouds are swirling overhead again. I feel the menacing certainty that it is the same storm as earlier, and the same fire I viewed in the flickering vision I had when the girl vanished, though I have no logical explanation for that assumption. The wind has picked up, making waves and lifting droplets of water from the surface. A spattering of salty mist hits me in the face. I am still trying to figure out what has caused the change when I hear it.
Something is splashing around the corner, a periodic sloshing that I recognize as a person wading through the flood. Terror of the unknown grips me and I move, sloshing myself now as I struggle to get out of sight. I just make the cover of a bit of ruined wall when the approaching figure reaches the corner. I crouch low in the murky water and peer into the street from the safety of cover.
This one is no teenager. And no one I’ve ever seen before. Foreigner does not begin to describe the man. He is certainly not a native of my time. Bearded and serious, his dark eyes bore into the surroundings with a fierce determination from under a dark turban. His soaked linen robes impede his progress through the flood. Once a desert tan, the bottoms of his garments have absorbed enough seawater to take on a deeper shade of brown. The man is not especially tall, but he appears to be strong. Leather bands wrap around the wrists of his muscular forearms. He was stepping doggedly through the floodwaters despite the resistance of his clothing, propelling himself through the murk at considerable speed with the aid of a metal-capped staff. Now he has stopped and is staring at the oak tree. My tree.
In Times Like These: eBook Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 110