Time Travel Omnibus, page 1010
Petra was surprised the first time she saw a Bore team in the shop—the Vagabond, the Historian, the translator, two plugs, and a “Consultant” whose job was ostensibly to provide a life story for the client, but who spent three hours insisting that Roman women could have worn corsets if the Empire had sailed far enough.
The Historian was either too stupid or too smart to argue, and Petra’s protest had been cut short by Simone stepping forward to suggest they discuss jewelry for the Historian and plausible wardrobe for the plugs.
“Why, they’re noble too, of course,” the client had said, adjusting his high collar. “What else could they be?”
Plugs were always working-class, even Petra knew that—in case you had to stay behind and fix things for a noble who’d mangled the past, you didn’t want to run the risk of a rival faction calling for your head, which they tended strongly to do.
Petra tallied the cost of the wardrobe for a Roman household: a million in material and labor, another half a million in jewelry. With salaries for the entourage and the fees for machine management and operation, his vacation would cost him ten million.
Ten million to go back in time in lovely clothes, and not be allowed to change a thing. Petra took dutiful notes and marked in the margin, A Waste.
She looked up from the paper when Simone said, “No.”
The client had frowned, not used to the word. “But I’m absolutely sure it was possible—”
“It may be possible, depending on your source,” Simone said, with a look at the Historian, “but it is not right.”
“Well, no offense, Miss Carew, but I’m paying you to dress me, not to give me your opinion on what’s right.”
“Apologies, sir,” said Simone, smiling. “You won’t be paying me at all. Petra, please show the gentlemen out.”
They made the papers; Mr. Bei couldn’t keep from talking about his experience in the Crusades.
“I was going to plan another trip right away,” he was quoted as saying, “but I don’t know how to top this! I think I’ll be staying here. The Institute has already asked me to come and speak about the importance of knowing your escape plan in an emergency, and believe me, I know it.”
Under his photo was the tiny caption: Clothes by Chronomode.
“Mr. Bei doesn’t mention his plugs,” Petra said, feeling a little sick. “Guess he wasn’t the only one that got riddled with arrows.”
“It’s what the job requires. If you have the aptitude, it’s excellent work.”
“It can’t be worth it.”
“Nothing is worth what we give it,” said Simone. She dropped her copy of the paper on Petra’s desk. “You need to practice your running stitch at home. The curve on that back seam looks like a six-year-old made it.”
Tibi cornered Petra at the Threaders’ Guild meeting. Tibi worked at Mansion, which outfitted Vagabonders with a lot more pomp and circumstance than Simone did.
Tibi had a dead butterfly pinned to her dress, and when she hugged Petra it left a dusting of pale green on Petra’s shoulder.
“Petra! Lord, I was JUST thinking about you! I passed Chronomode the other day and thought, Poor Petra, it’s such a prison in there. Holding up?” Tibi turned to a tall young tailor beside her. “Michael, darling, Petra works for Carew over at Chronomode.”
The tailor raised his eyebrows. “There’s a nightmare. How long have you hung in there, a week?”
Five years and counting. “Sure,” Petra said.
“No, for ages,” Tibi corrected. “I don’t know how she makes it, I really don’t, it’s just so horrible.” Tibi wrapped one arm around the tailor and cast a pitying glance at Petra. “I was there for a week, I made the Guild send me somewhere else a week later, it was just inhuman. What is it like, working there for so long without anyone getting you out of there?”
“Oh, who knows,” said Petra. “What’s it like getting investigated for sending people back to medieval France with machine-sewn clothes?”
Tibi frowned. “The company settled that.”
Petra smiled at Tibi, then at the tailor. “I’m Petra.”
“Michael,” he said, and frowned at her hand when they shook.
“Those are just calluses from the needles,” Petra said. “Don’t mind them.”
“Ms. O’Rourke’s kimono is ready for you to look at,” Petra said, bringing the mannequin to Simone’s desk.
“No need,” said Simone, her eyes on her computer screen, “you don’t have enough imagination to invent mistakes.”
Petra hoped that was praise, but suspected otherwise.
A moment later Simone slammed a hand on her desk. “Dammit, look at this. The hair ornament I need is a reproduction. Because naturally a reproduction is indistinguishable from an original. The people of 1743 Kyoto will never notice. Are they hiring antiques dealers out of primary school these days?”
Simone pushed away from the desk in disgust and left through the door to the shop, heels clicking.
Petra smoothed the front of the kimono. It was heavy gray silk, painted with cherry blossoms and chrysanthemums. Near the hem, Petra had added butterflies.
The light in the shop was still on; Petra saw it just as she was leaving.
Careless, she thought as she crossed the workshop. Simone would have killed me.
She had one hand on the door when the sound of a footstep stopped her. Were they being robbed? She thought about the Danish Bronze Age brooches hidden behind the counter in their velvet wrappers.
Petra grabbed a fabric weight in her fist and opened the door a crack.
Simone stood before the fitting mirror, holding a length of bright yellow silk against her shoulders. It washed her out (she’d never let a client with her complexion touch the stuff), but her reflection was smiling.
She hung it from her collarbones like a Roman; draped it across her shoulder like the pallav of a sari; bustled it around her waist. The bright gold slid through her fingers as if she was dancing with it.
Simone gathered the fabric against her in two hands, closed her eyes at the feel of it against her face.
Petra closed the door and went out the back way, eyes fixed on the wings at her feet.
When she came around the front of the shop the light was still on in the window, and Simone stood like a doll wrapped in a wide yellow ribbon, imagining a past she’d never see.
Petra turned for home.
Disease Control hadn’t made the rounds yet, and the darkness was a swarm of wings, purple and blue and gold.
FIRST FLIGHT
Mary Robinette Kowal
Eleanor Louise Jackson stood inside the plain steel box of the time machine. It was about the size of an outhouse, but without a bench or windows. She clutched her cane with one hand and her handbag with the other. It felt like the scan was taking far too long, but she was fairly certain that was her nerves talking.
Her corset made her ribs creak with every breath. She’d expected to hate wearing the thing but there was a certain comfort from having something to support her back and give her a shape more like a woman than a sack of potatoes.
A gust of air puffed around her and the steel box was gone. She stood in a patch of tall grass under an October morning sky. The caravan of scientists, technicians, and reporters had vanished from the field where they’d set up camp. Louise inhaled with wonder that the time machine had worked. Assuming that this was 1905, of course—the year of her birth and the bottom limit to her time traveling range. Even with all the preparation for this trip, it baffled her sense of the order of things to be standing there.
The air tasted sweet and so pure that she could make out individual fragrances; the hard edge of oak mixed with the raw green of fresh mowed grass. Louise had thought her sense of smell had gotten worse because she’d gotten old.
She drew herself together and pulled the watch out from the chain around her neck to check the time, as if it would reflect the local time instead of the time she’d left: 8:30 on the dot, which looked about right judging by the light. Now, she had six hours before they spun the machine back down and she got returned to her present. If the Board of Directors had thought she could do everything faster, they would have sent her back for less time because it was expensive to keep the machine spun up, but even with all the physical therapy, Louise was still well over a hundred.
With that in mind, she headed for the road. She’d been walking the route from the box to Huffman Prairie for the last week, so they could get the timing on it. But this looked nothing like her present. There had been a housing development across the street from where she’d left and now there was a farm with a single tall white house sitting smack in the middle of the corn fields.
If she thought too much about it, she wasn’t sure she’d have the nerve to keep going. Down the road, a wagon drawn by a bay horse came towards her. Besides the fellow driving it, the back of the wagon was crammed full of pigs that were squealing loud enough to be heard from here. It made her think of her husband, dead these long years or two years old, depending on how you counted it. She shook her head to get rid of that thought.
Louise patted her wig, though the makeup fellow had done a lovely job fixing it to her head. She’d had short hair since the 1940s and it felt strange to have that much weight on top of her head again. The white hair wound around her head in the style she remembered her own grandmother wearing. She checked to make sure her broad hat was settled and that the brooch masking the “hat-cam” was still pointing forward.
She hadn’t got far when the wagon pulled up alongside her.
“Pardon ma’am.” The boy driving it couldn’t be more than thirteen with red hair like a snarl of yarn. He had a heavy array of freckles and his two front teeth stuck out past his lip. He had a nice smile for all that. “Seeing as how we’re going the same way, might I offer you a ride?”
He had a book in his lap, like he’d been reading as he was driving. The stink of the pigs billowed around them with the wind. One of the sows gave a particularly loud squeal and Louise glanced back involuntarily.
The boy looked over his shoulder. “My charges are garrulous this morning.” He patted the book in his lap and leaned toward her. “I’m pretending they’re Odysseus’s men and that helps some.”
Louise couldn’t help but chuckle at the boy’s elevated language. “My husband was a hog farmer. He always said a pig talked more sense than a politician.”
“Politicians or sailors. If you don’t mind sharing a ride with them I’ll be happy to offer it.”
“Well now, that’s kind of you. I’m on my way to Huffman Prairie.”
He slid over on the bench and stuck his hand out to offer her a boost up. “I’m Homer Van Loon.”
Well, that accounted for his taste in reading and vocabulary. Boys his age were more like to read the penny dreadfuls than anything else but anyone whose parents saddled him with a name like Homer was bound to be a bit odd.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Louise Jackson.” She passed him her cane and gripped his other hand. Holding that and the weathered wooden side of the wagon, she hauled herself aboard. Grunting in the sort of way that would have made her mama scold her, Louise dropped onto the wooden bench. Three months of physical therapy to get ready for this and climbing into a wagon almost wore her out.
“You walk all the way out here from town?” Homer picked up the reins and sat next to her.
“Lands, no.” Louise settled her bag in her lap and told the lie the team of historians had prepared for her, in case someone asked. “I took the interurban rail out and then thought I’d walk the rest for a constitutional. The way was a bit longer than I thought, so I’m grateful to you.” The Lord would forgive her for the lie, given the circumstance.
“Are you headed out to the Wright Brothers’ ?”
“I am. I never thought I’d see such a thing.”
“That’s for a certai—” His voice cut off.
Louise slammed hard against pavement. The wagon was gone. Power lines hung over her head and the acrid smell of asphalt stung her nose.
And smoke.
Shouting, half a dozen people ran toward her. Louise rolled over to her knees and looked around for her cane. It had landed on the road to her side and she grabbed it to lever herself back to her feet.
Mr. Barnes was near the front of the people running toward her. The poor thing looked as if his heart would give out with worry, though Louise wasn’t sure if he was worried about her or his invention.
The young fellow who did her wig got to her first, helped her to her feet. It seemed as if everyone was chorusing questions about if she was all right. Louise nodded and kept repeating that she was fine until Mr. Barnes arrived, red-faced and blowing like a racehorse.
Louise drew herself up as tall as she could. “What happened?”
“We blew a transformer.” Mr. Barnes gestured at one of the telephone poles, which had smoke billowing up from it. “Are you all right?” Up close, it was clear he was worried about her and Louise chided herself for doubting him. He hadn’t been a thing but kind to her since the Time Travel Society recruited her.
“I’m fine. More worried about the boy I was talking to than anything else.”
That stopped all the conversation flat. The program director, Dr. Connelly, pushed her way through the crowd, face pale. “Someone saw you vanish? You’re sure?”
“I was sitting in his wagon.” Louise settled her hat on her head. “Maybe, if you send me back a few seconds after I vanished, we can pretend that I fell out of the wagon.”
“Out of the question.” Dr. Connelly set her mouth into a hard line. With her dark hair drawn tight in a bun, she looked like a school marm with an unruly child.
“He’ll think he’s gone crazy.”
“And having you reappear will make things better?”
“At least I can explain what’s happening so he’s not left wondering for the rest of his life.”
“Explain what? That you are a time traveler?”
Louise gripped her cane and took a step closer to Dr. Connelly. When she was young, she would have been able to look down at the woman and still felt like she ought to, even though their eyes were on level. “That’s exactly what I’ll tell him. He’s a twelve year-old boy reading Homer on his free time. I don’t think he’ll have a bit of a problem believing me.”
A muscle pulsed in Dr. Connelly’s jaw and she finally said, “There’s no point in arguing out here in the heat. We’ll take it to the rest of board and let them decide.”
That was as clear a “no” as if she’d actually said the word. Louise leaned forward on her cane. “I look forward to speaking with them.” She cut Dr. Connelly off before she could open her mouth. “As I’m the only one who’s met the boy, I trust you’ll want me to tell the Board about him.” People shouldn’t make the mistake of thinking that being old meant she was sweet.
Louise sat in her costume in a conference room with Dr. Connelly, Mr. Barnes, and two other members of the board, both white men who looked old but couldn’t be much past retirement age. The conference room had flat panel screens set up with the other board members on them. They had been debating the issues for the past half hour largely going into details of why it was too dangerous to try to make her reappear on the wagon on account of it being a moving vehicle.
Louise cleared her throat. “Pardon me, but may I ask a question?”
“Of course.” Mr. Barnes swiveled his chair to face her. The boy didn’t seem that much older than Homer Van Loon for all that he’d invented the time machine.
“I hear you talking a lot about the program and I understand that’s important and all, but I’m not hearing anyone talk about what’s best for Homer Van Loon.”
Dr. Connelly swiveled her chair to face Louise. “I appreciate your concern for the boy, but I don’t think you have an understanding of the historical context of the issue.”
Her disdain lay barely under the surface of civility. Louise had seen this sort of new money back when she’d been working in the department store and she always had been required to smile at them. No need now.
“Young lady,” Louise snapped at Dr. Connelly like one of her own children. “I’ve lived through two world wars, the Great Depression, the Collapse. I lived through race riots, saw us put men on the moon, the Spanish Flu, AIDS, the Titanic, Suffrage, and the Internet. I’ve raised five children and buried two, got twenty-three grandchildren, eleven great-grandchildren, and five great-great grandchildren with more on the way. And you have the nerve to say I don’t understand history?”
The room was silent except for the whir of the computer fans.
Dr. Connelly said, “I apologize if we’ve made you feel slighted, Louise. We’ll take your concerns under advisement as we continue our deliberations.”
If she hadn’t been a good Christian woman, she would have cracked the woman on the head with her cane for the amount of condescension in her voice.
“How many people do you have that are my age?” She knew the answer to the question before she asked it. She might not use the Internet but she had grandchildren who were only to happy to do searches for her. A person couldn’t travel back before she was born and Louise was born in 1905. There weren’t that many people of her age, let alone able-bodied ones.
“Six.” Dr. Connelly looked flatly unimpressed with Louise’s longevity.
Mr. Barnes either didn’t know where she was headed or agreed with her. “But you’re the only that’s a native English speaker.”
Louise nodded her head in appreciation. “So it seems to me that you might want to do more than keep my concerns ‘under consideration.’ ”
A man on one of the screens spoke. “Are you blackmailing us, Mrs. Jackson?”
“No sir, I’m not. I’m trying to get you to pay attention.” She straightened in her chair now that they were all looking at her. “You saw the video of me meeting him. Homer Van Loon is a boy out of time himself. He’s reading the Odyssey, which if you know anything about farm boys from 1905 ought to tell you everything you need to know right there. Not only will he believe me, he’ll understand why it needs to be kept secret—as if anyone would believe him anyhow. And if you think on it, having someone local to the time might be handy. He’s twelve now. When you send someone back to Black Friday, which you will I expect, he’ll be in his thirties. You think a man like that wouldn’t be helpful?”
