The Time Travel Chronicles Read online

  Colby’s hover-jet came screaming towards Haven. Its engines at a high-pitched squeal.

  “Did you call him?” I asked Zoe, but the words must have come out wrong because she didn’t reply.

  The jet angled its strafing run to pass within a few feet of us, its cargo bay door open wide. And then its roaring engines came to a shuddering stop along with its forward momentum. Red tracer fire from Haven’s anti-air cannons froze in mid-air behind the jet. The chaos of the moment settled.

  Beside me, Zoe’s pupils were white, her face strained. She held my hand and Maddix’s, pulling us both into her pause.

  The exposure couldn’t touch me. I had no room in my broken heart for fear of falling. Free for the moment from the constraints of time, the three of us leapt for the hover-jet.

  Chapter Fifteen

  NOW

  Abigail knelt on the multi-colored carpet beside Matilda, stacking blocks.

  “I never did tell you why Mati went back,” I said, watching the two carry on with no concern for me. “Same reason we all eventually go back. You can’t escape the memories. It’s the toll blinking takes on us. Of living with one foot in the future and the other in the past.”

  Abi had figured that one out on her own.

  “All those moments rewritten become a part of you, forever and for always.” I fiddled with a faded orange block, turning it over and over between my fingers, staring hard at the ground while saying all the things I couldn’t while Abi was still alive. “Eventually we all get crushed beneath the weight of the past. But I was too weak to tell you that.”

  “I needed you to stay.” Moisture pooled in the corner of my eye. I didn’t look up. “To give me a reason not to go back myself. ‘Cause as long as you were here, I didn’t feel so bad for staying.”

  “I miss you both,” I said, but neither Mati nor Abi acknowledged my admission. “Your absences…these memories of moments I can’t fix, they’re grinding away at me. And yet I’m too afraid to join you, ‘cause all I keep thinking is: what if they were wrong?”

  “Does choosing to stay make me weak?” I paused, waiting for assurances that would never come.

  How much longer can I last?

  I thought of Zoe and Maddix, of their inescapable futures; we all carried our crosses. I couldn’t abandon them. Couldn’t leave them incapable of rewriting that wrong.

  Abigail searched the floor with questing eyes. I handed her my orange block and she took it, smiling.

  People still needed me. That, I suppose, was reason enough to stay. For just a while longer, at least.

  A Word from Anthony Vicino

  We’ve all wanted it at one time or another. To go back and try again, to do it better, to do it right.

  Whether that be after your first thorough heart stomping when the one you love said, “It’s not me, it’s you”, and left you bitter and hurting and clutching at the burnt out remains of that once beautiful thing; or the time you were faced with mortality in the suffering eyes of a loved one you just assumed would always be there, living forever because surely death is something that only happens to other people, not to you or the ones you love; or perhaps it was the time you made a decision so costly that the price is one you’ll be paying for the rest of your life.

  Time travel fascinates me because we all do it in some form. Reliving memories, playing them through our mind’s eye, forward and back. Sometimes pretending we said something different—something funnier or something more heartfelt. Other times nothing changes, and we relive a moment precisely as we remember it. Whether that be the blissful moment of a father first holding his newborn daughter, or the self-flagellating punishment he felt when she came home from school in tears and there was nothing he could do to make it better; we all live in the past to one degree or another.

  When it comes to time travel, and changing the past, it’s rarely the case that we want to alter those moments of happiness. Relive them, sure. But change them? Nah.

  The moments we want to change are the ones that hurt us.

  In “Extant”, I set out to create a world where that was possible. Where certain people could travel back short distances in time to reweave the fabric of reality. The drawback, however, is that regardless of how they change the past, they retain the memories of all those moments undone.

  They can save a loved one from the car crash that would end their life, but they still remember how the ice in their gut felt the instant they heard the news. How a part of their heart cracked a little when they found out their sister had died. That pain cannot be undone, cannot be forgotten; it’s a part of them.

  “Extant” is, above all else, the story of those people who must shoulder the weight of the past alone, and what happens when that burden becomes too much.

  Many thanks to Samuel Peralta for the opportunity to share my story with you all, and to Crystal Pikko Watanabe for her fierce editorial red pen. To the cadre of fantastic authors assembled in these pages, it is an honor to have my words touching yours.

  Keep in touch by joining me at my website, www.onelazyrobotblog.com, where I ramble about all things Science Fiction and Fantasy. To sully your hands with more of my stories click here, http://www.amazon.com/Anthony-Vicino/e/B00PIRYGN2

  Gambit

  by Rysa Walker

  The Objectivist Club

  Washington, EC

  May 9, 2304

  MORGEN CAMPBELL LAUGHS at his own joke. It’s a deep belly laugh and, as with most things the man attempts, he throws his full and considerable weight behind it. Most of the idiots in the room join him. That’s due less to any of his comments being funny than to the fact that Campbell, the host of this gathering, is generous with his alcohol and mood-meds.

  I should know to avoid the Club this time of year. When there are new faces at CHRONOS, new people that Campbell can impress with his vast collection of historical and philosophical bullshit, he inevitably trots out the whole existence-of-God shtick. I vary my answer occasionally, just to keep up appearances. But it’s generally some variant of no, and there are always a few younger historians who find it amusing that the religious expert isn’t devout. Not even Campbell knows my actual views, although he probably has a better idea than most of the halfwits I work with at CHRONOS.

  “Why do you think that’s strange, Campbell? Whether I believe, whether anyone in this room believes—hell, whether God even exists—isn’t the point. Even if the answer to all of those questions is an unequivocal negative, that doesn’t alter the reality that religion is the most effective tool we have for changing history.” There’s a slight gasp from the newer recruits, so I look their way and add, “Theoretically speaking, of course. He’s seen it play out time and again in our simulations.”

  “I’ve seen it fail more than once, as well.”

  True. Campbell has seen it fail exactly twice in the three years we’ve been playing, out of more than two dozen simulations. I’m about to point that out, but he speaks first.

  “We have believers in this room. In fact, I’d wager over half adhere to some sort of religion. I include myself in that number.”

  “Does hedonism count as a religion?”

  “Funny, Saul. But that actually validates my next point. You can’t leverage religious belief to effect change on a systemic level. Even if we all believed, we’d all believe in different ways. While religion may cause the occasional dispute between nations and even within governments, the various faiths tend to balance each other out. Fine, let’s look at it a different way. Do you believe in sin? ”

  That’s a new one. “Well…that depends on your definition. Sin lies in the eye of the beholder.”

  “No dodging the question.”

  “It’s not a dodge. Just a reasoned response to a complex question.” I nod toward the old, overweight Doberman asleep at Campbell’s feet. “Cyrus here probably thinks it’s a sin that our society allows him to be owned by a bipedal baboon, when his own intelligence and personal grooming are far superior.”
There’s a chuckle from some of the neophytes, so I wave my hand in their general direction. “That young man over there in the corner who’s fresh out of Fundamentals? He thinks it’s a sin that the gorgeous creature he walked in with isn’t as in love with him as he is with her.”

  The gorgeous creature in question, a pale blonde who’s just finished her field training, blushes. A tiny, probably involuntary, flicker of her eyes reveals I’m right about at least one of three guys, none older than eighteen, who accompanied her tonight.

  I look back at Campbell. “You think it’s a sin—and I’d generally agree—that our government restricts parents to selecting only one genetic upgrade for their offspring. You have to invite us here to listen to secondhand accounts of historical events you’d love to view in person, but can’t, because your parents chose—what exactly did they choose, Campbell?”

  His eyes narrow, and I consider leaving it there. Campbell could cause trouble for me, if he ever decided to run his mouth to the admins at CHRONOS. He could possibly even get me grounded, stuck here at HQ doing background research with no travel at all. The man has connections.

  But he won’t. We want the same thing, even if we have different ideas on how to achieve it.

  So I push a bit harder. “Personally, I think it’s a sin to be yammering about questions with no answers when my mouth”—I rest my eyes momentarily on the girl again, on her lips, and feel a rush of satisfaction when her blush returns—“could be otherwise engaged with the much better brand of whiskey you stash behind the bar.”

  He’s been known to pull out the good stuff, the stuff that isn’t doled out by the food dispensers, on the evenings when we’re running historical simulations, but he keeps those bottles hidden when he hosts the entire Objectivist Club. I grab the bottle anyway and toss back a shot without even bothering to savor it, just because I know it will piss him off.

  Tate Poulsen, resident Viking historian and my roommate for the past year, is seated at one of the low tables near the bar, talking to Esther, who studies ancient African civilizations. He laughs, shaking his head when I offer him the bottle, and then asks in a low voice. “Are you done? Or do you want to stick around to see if you can raise Campbell’s blood pressure even more?”

  Over Tate’s shoulder, I see the blonde girl with the new historians—her name is Cassie, Kathy, something like that. She looks away when I catch her eye, but she was clearly watching me. That fact is almost incentive enough to stay, but Campbell will be too wound up to keep his mouth shut. If I don’t duck out soon, he’ll try to pull the conversation back toward one of his philosophical circle-jerks.

  “No point. Grab your jacket and let’s go.”

  Esther gives me a reproachful look as she watches Tate’s well-muscled back retreat. “Thanks, Saul. I was actually making progress this time.”

  “No, you weren’t. Sorry, Ess. The boy has eyes for only one woman these days.”

  Since we’re technically supposed to keep our libidos zipped when in the field, I don’t add that the woman in question is half Esther’s age and lives in a tiny Viking village over a thousand years in the past. But she probably suspects. In fact, knowing Esther, she’s broken the rule with more than one Akan warrior.

  I nod toward the corner. “I see some lonely virgins over there. And if that doesn’t work out, buzz me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” Still, she runs one long nail along the inside of my leg. We both know she’ll buzz if no one else distracts her.

  Tate is leaning against the back wall of the lift when I catch up. “Confess your sins at the throne of Cyrus, so that you may receive his blessing,” he says, mimicking Campbell’s pompous tone. “Should we add that one to the book?”

  He smiles at our little in-joke, a game the big lunk thinks he understands. He doesn’t add much of value, but he’s someone to bounce ideas off. And he’s dumb enough to believe the Book of Prophecy and all of my research is only for my weekly simulations with Campbell.

  “Should have taken the drink I offered. You never come up with anything decent when you’re sober. I prefer this one: Those who are capable of greatness but settle for mediocrity have sinned in the eyes of Cyrus.”

  “Not bad.” Tate grins, and I join him, even though it’s not a joke. It’s the honest truth, the God’s honest truth, if you like.

  The only sin I could commit in the eyes of any creator worth worshipping is failing to live up to my own potential. Failing to act, failing to achieve, failing to overcome the hurdles set by lesser minds.

  Accepting mediocrity when you are capable of greatness is a sin.

  But watching mediocrity play out over the course of centuries, watching as fools stumble over their feet and let accidents create history, simply watching the blundering when you have tools at your disposal to change it, to shape it to your will?

  That’s not’s just a sin, it’s a cardinal sin. Maybe the only cardinal sin.

  I resolved years ago, when I was one of the newly-minted historians, that I would find a way to sin no more. Now, it's just a matter of working out the details.

  The devil is always in the details.

  ∞

  Little Rest, Rhode Island

  May 18, 1780

  “Up the North Road, two roads over. Mebbe a mile. They might not be receiving, however. Their daughter, Susannah, she’s very ill. And…d’ye know Potter’s no longer a judge?” There’s a gleam in the innkeeper’s eye, along with the sly smile that always comes just before a juicy bit of village gossip. “Taken up with that woman preacher, the Friend. Quite the scandal.”

  “Indeed?” Katherine replies, with a haughty lift of her chin. “That’s actually good to know, since it is the Friend whose counsel we seek.”

  I sigh. We’re clearly not going to get anything else out of the man now, so I tug her elbow and guide her outside.

  “Should have let him go on a bit, Kathy. You get useful information that way.”

  She blushes—no surprise there—nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair back inside her bonnet. “Sorry.”

  Our cover story for this trip is that we’re a newlywed couple seeking marital guidance from Jemima Wilkinson, who answers these days only to her chosen title of “Publick Universal Friend.” For the past four years, since Jemima awoke from an extended illness, she’s claimed that she’s no longer Jemima, no longer female, but now a genderless embodiment of the Holy Spirit. She’s amassed several hundred followers here in Rhode Island and the surrounding colonies who fund her ministry. Some are from the Quaker congregation she once attended and others come from various evangelical sects that sprouted during the revival frenzy of the Great Awakening a few decades back. Her detractors argue that she’s a lazy opportunist who has found a way to live in comfort with little exertion, simply by exploiting the gullibility of a few wealthy patrons like Judge Potter. And none of those detractors believe that she’s celibate, even though she urges her congregation to be.

  I don’t know about the celibacy issue. She didn’t look at me the way most women do, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s more attracted to Potter’s wife than to the judge himself. What I do know is that the Friend was extremely interested in the bit of prophecy I pushed her way several months ago when I attended a sermon she preached in Charlestown. She was even more delighted when I told her I didn’t want any sort of credit. What pisses me off is that even though I gave the stupid cow the precise day, she merely proclaimed that the darkened noontime sky and blood red moon would come…soon. Maybe within the next six weeks. Moving from her original vague pronouncement that judgment day was nigh to this slightly less vague pronouncement about a specific portent of the End Times barely tweaked Jemima Wilkinson’s impact on the timeline. The tiny blips ironed themselves out quickly and she remains a footnote in history, just another strange messiah who led her followers into the wilderness and then faded into obscurity.

  If she’d told them the precise date, this would’ve been a far better test of
how much I can alter without alerting the CHRONOS overseers. As it is, I have to move on to the second, riskier stage of the test without full data. That wouldn’t have happened if Jemima was bright enough to follow simple instructions.

  We begin the hike up North Road in silence. Katherine Shaw is a welcome change from the chatterboxes Angelo usually assigns me, and it occurs to me that she may be exactly what I need in a research partner. Our paths will cross a lot given her field of study. For better or worse, religious history is chock full of pious women clamoring for someone's rights, occasionally even for their own. And she’s young enough that manipulating her will be a breeze.

  “In case I didn’t say it earlier, Quaker garb suits thee."

  “Thanks.”

  I purposefully wait until the pink begins fading away from her pale skin to speak again. "Plain dress is a very difficult look to pull off, you know. If there’s the slightest hint of drab in a woman’s face, it tips the scales toward totally plain. No risk of that in your case."

  As expected, the compliment summons the blood right back to her cheeks.

  I need to tread carefully, though. Angelo very nearly saddled me with Delia Morell as a third party. I don’t have much use for Delia or her husband. Even though they're only a few years my senior, they've gradually wormed their way into CHRONOS middle-management, mostly by sucking up to Angelo. The two times I've landed a reprimand, it's been Delia’s fault. I talked my way out of anything actually sticking to my record, but I'm smart enough to steer clear of them.

  Angelo didn’t even have a decent excuse when I asked exactly why he’d assign Delia, a mid-twentieth century specialist, to a Quaker village in 1780. He just did that weak, wavy thing with his hands and changed the subject. But he pulled her from the jump schedule, so I win.