Time Travel Omnibus, page 1015
He’d thought he could save Mae from violence by what he’d done.
How could he have believed such a thing? It was like thinking you could pour water down the throat of a drowning man to save him. He’d thrown away Mae’s friendship, let alone any love she might ever have felt for him. He’d deprived her of companionship in this lonely prison after he was gone.
He reminded himself of what Conway had in mind for her. It didn’t help.
Until he’d come here, Herel had always managed to avoid looking inward, but he couldn’t do that anymore, not here in this claustrophobic place. He thought about his lonely life and the terrible thing he had done. In the distorted strangelet world he subsisted in, he stared into his own soul no matter how much he tried to fight against it. It was as black as the space outside the time station.
He hated himself for his weakness even more than he hated himself for murdering Conway.
He realized for the first time that he’d always secretly been afraid of where his emotions would lead him. He’d been right to be afraid.
He rubbed his stinging eyes and tried not to think about it anymore.
By the time the ship came he was a much older man. Decades had passed, centuries, millennia. Not inside time—which could not be quantified—but inside his tormented skull.
At first it was just a soft hum, something he might have imagined. And then he was sure he heard it, but he thought it was the power surging through conduits behind the bulkheads, something he’d never really listened to even if he’d heard it all along. He imagined electrons leaping from one orbit to another, forever fleeing their nuclei.
It got louder.
Mae emerged from her stateroom and he knew. The sound was a signal.
“Is it the ship?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, pulling herself past him through the corridor. He followed her.
“How long will it take to dock?” he asked, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. It sounded strained and raspy, almost as if it came from somewhere else.
“The ship will be here soon enough.”
Not soon enough to suit him. He could hardly believe it was finally happening.
At least she was talking to him now. He had to say what was on his mind before it was too late.
“Mae, I’m sorry.”
“Okay, you’re sorry.”
“I was trying to do the right thing.” Even as he spoke the words he realized how inadequate they were. “I wanted to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From Conway.”
She looked at him with pity. “He was just a foolish boy.”
“I was trying to help you.”
“Didn’t you think I could take care of myself?” she asked.
He stopped trying to justify himself to her. He hadn’t known then that she was stronger than him, stronger than Conway, stronger than both of them put together—but he knew it now.
He was grateful that it would all soon be in the past. But he had one more thing to say. “Mae, I’m in love with you.”
“Didn’t you know I like women?” she said. There was no malice in her tone.
Herel didn’t breathe for some few seconds. At last he exhaled.
All right, then. He’d never had a chance with her. All right. It was better this way.
The hum grew louder still, and they went to the window to watch the ship arrive. Peering into the darkness, Herel saw nothing.
“Are you sure it’s coming?” he asked, conscious of a stricture in his chest.
“Yes.”
The humming stopped. Herel could hear himself breathing. His vision shook with each of his heartbeats.
And then it was there. It seemed to emerge all at once into the light cast from the window. What he could see of it was sleek and strange, designed perhaps a thousand years or ten thousand years beyond his time. He was awestricken to think of how much its makers must have known—or would know . . .
Somewhere inside the time knot was another Kerr hole, and he would be dropped into it. It had to be. Would he go forward? Would he be drawn back to his own time? Or would he go somewhere and sometime he’d never dreamed of? It didn’t matter, as long as the ship took him away from the time station.
He got into his suit and went to the airlock. He put on his helmet and tested his air supply. This was it.
He slammed his palm against the switch and opened the inner hatch.
Entering the airlock, he faced the outer hatch. He opened it, taking pleasure in the sound of oxygen rushing in from the ship. The light coming from inside it was so bright it hurt his eyes. Its interior seemed tantalizingly familiar, but that couldn’t be. He couldn’t remember the future.
He saw shiny, unidentifiable objects. One of them came to life in the patch of brilliance cast into the airlock. It was a robot.
It stood and looked down at him, a slender, bronzed humanoid with the graceful lines of a racehorse, some three meters tall.
Herel pushed himself forward.
The robot effortlessly picked up a box, serpentine arms spanning its width. The box’s smoky sides did not hide what was inside it.
It was Conway.
He was desiccated, but his shriveled nakedness was recognizable inside his transparent coffin. His skin was gray paper glued to bones, his tats almost indiscernible from the leathery wrinkles. His lips were pulled back to bare his filed teeth in a terrible grin. He was curled up like a fetus.
Herel stopped, shocked to see the corpse. Conway was small, so very small.
Herel rebuked himself for hesitating. A dead man couldn’t hurt him. He moved forward again.
Something held him back.
He looked down to see tendrils lashing out and coiling around his arms and legs. The station’s maintenance system was restraining him.
The impassive robot watched as Herel was dragged back through the inner hatch. He struggled, but he was helpless as more tendrils slithered over his body. As thin as they were, their grip was steel.
The robot entered the time station and set the box down just inside the examination room. It stepped back through the airlock and returned to the docking node without turning around, like a film running in reverse.
“Good-bye, Herel,” Mae said. Her voice was muffled through his helmet.
“Mae!” he cried to her in terror as he was pulled farther and farther from the airlock. “What’s happening to me?”
“You’re staying here.”
He was carried past her. She was buoyant as tendrils helped her put on her pressure suit. They seemed to caress her. Scores of them, hundreds of them, swayed about her like seaweed in a gentle current.
“What are you doing?” he cried.
“I’m leaving.”
“But how?”
It was the first time he’d heard her laugh since he’d killed Conway.
“Looks like the rest of my sentence has been commuted,” she said, accepting her helmet from a waving skein of tendrils. “And yours is just beginning.”
“But they can’t do this!” he shouted, bound and helpless. “It’s impossible!”
“Is it?” she said, not bothering to put on the helmet.
“Mae—”
She was inside the hatch.
“Mae! Don’t go!”
She floated through the airlock.
“Mae!” he screamed, writhing in the grip of the tendrils. “Don’t leave me alone! Please!”
She didn’t look back.
“Mae!”
She was rising into the light when the inner hatch closed.
A NIGHT TO FORGET
C.A. Verstraete
The building’s faded brick and dirty windows made Jessica Adams question whether she’d found the right place.
She eyed the ad once more before exiting the car. Matt should’ve come and checked the place like he promised. Would’ve saved her a trip, and a ton of aggravation, she muttered.
Her mood sour, Jess inched closer and tried to peer beyond the layer of dirt in the front window. The inside of the store was dim, its secrets well hidden. She rubbed the dirt from a section of a pane of glass, her effort providing a slightly improved view of the items piled haphazardly on the window ledge. The collection included a faded cruise program, a black-and-white image of a woman in an elegant, ankle-length dress, and a pair of lady’s gloves, the tiny pearl buttons dull with age, the cloth’s once pristine white a memory.
The quaint scene seemed better suited to an antique shop than a place offering the kind of vacation she had in mind. She’d envisioned a private beach in the Caymans or a secluded cabin in the woods, just the two of them. Instead, Matt had begged off, telling her he was too busy for vacations. So, a little peeved, she went alone to investigate the new agency he’d seen advertised in the paper. She had half the mind to book a vacation for herself.
Her bravado faded now that she was here. She read the small, hand-lettered sign tucked into the bottom window pane and scoffed: TIMESHARES—ADVENTURE FOR THE AGES. The place was as likely to book her dream vacation as she was to win a million dollars. It sounded, well, kind of odd and a bit too good to be true.
“Good old Matt,” she groused. “He did it again.”
Disappointed, Jess refolded the newspaper page and shoved it in her bag. She needed a good strong cup of coffee. Maybe someone at the coffee shop could recommend another travel agency so the trip wouldn’t be a total waste.
She was about to leave when a flicker behind the glass caught her eye. Had the owner arrived? Guess she could at least see what the place offered and hope that the pickings weren’t as slim as she expected.
Finding the door open, she stepped inside. “Hello? Anyone here?”
She blinked several times, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. The view was staggering—row upon row of shelves stuffed with old books; faded manuscripts covering the walls and stuffed in baskets. Then there was the art: paintings, the varnish brown and cracked, hung in every available open space.
What a mess.
Still, the more she looked around, the more her curiosity grew. Each painting had a note tucked into the frame with the title, name, date: The Battle of the Bulge, Napoleon, Cleopatra.
Annoyance gave way to fascination as she wandered around. Was the owner branching out? Probably a good idea from the look of the place, she thought, as her finger rubbed a layer of dust off a painting.
Her questions about the missing travel agent faded at sight of the next painting. She studied the majestic ocean liner streaking through the mist: Maiden Voyage, The Titanic, the paper said. Not that she needed a note. She’d know the image anywhere.
The tragedy of the Titanic had captured her imagination since she was a child, thanks to her mother. Besides classic children’s stories like Jack and the Beanstalk or Mother Goose, her mother’s favorite, often-told tale had been about how her great-aunt had boarded the Titanic as a child. She had perished with many of the other immigrants traveling in the bare-bones quarters in the ship’s bowels.
Jess had repeatedly studied the faded photo of a young, unsmiling Polish girl dressed in a matronly long dress, babushka on her head, and clunky, old lady shoes on her feet. The patched, battered carpetbag she held accented the girl’s poverty.
She’d always suspected that the story of how the poor girl made it to England and onto the Titanic was just that—a fable. Family legend said the girl’s uncle won the third-class ticket playing dice (her mother said others insisted he stole it) and gave it to her in hopes of giving her a better life. So the story went.
Jess had begun her search for answers when her sixth grade teacher made everyone research and write an essay on a historical topic. To her surprise, she not only discovered that her mother’s story was true, but a helpful librarian led her to a list of Titanic passengers—which included her great-aunt.
Despite her continued research, she never learned more about the girl. Not that it mattered. That someone she “knew”—at least through stories—had been involved in such a tragedy made the event more personal. Ever since, she’d felt a strong emotional bond to the vessel.
An unexpected voice broke Jess’s musing, making her jump. “What’re you doing sneaking up on people!” she cried. Her outburst trailed off as she eyed the stooped little man behind her. He barely reached five feet and stood wringing his hands, his face sheepish.
“I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He gave her a timid smile and pointed at the painting. “That’s always been my favorite,” he said, his voice soft.
She returned his smile and turned back to the painting. “Mine, too. Someone in my family died on the Titanic.”
“You don’t say?” The man stroked the silvery mustache that draped the outer edges of his lips like antique lace. “I’m assumin’ you’ve seen the documentaries on the raisin’ of the ship. Been to the exhibit?”
“Yes, I watched it on TV, but I haven’t been to the exhibit yet.”
“No? Well, it’s somethin’ you should see, especially with your connection. Hmm, I’ve just the thing if you’re interested, something no Titanic fan would want to miss, I’m sure.”
His smile and oily tone made Jess pause, but the bad feeling passed just as quickly as it appeared. She pondered the idea. Maybe she could take a trip and see the exhibit at the same time, something Matt would hate. That made it even more attractive.
“Well . . . maybe it’s a possibility. I’d like to go someplace different, and if I can see the exhibit, that’d be great.”
He clapped his hands in delight. “Excellent, excellent! Any particular place you would like to visit?” He leaned toward her, his face anxious. The tip of his tongue licked his lips.
The image of a snake unfolded in her mind. Jess recoiled slightly, surprised at the thought. She’d better finish and take a break. Maybe she wouldn’t be so jumpy once she ate. Blood sugar must be low.
“I’ve thought of going overseas or renting a cottage on Martha’s Vineyard. I’ve never been there.”
He scurried around the table, grabbed a giant black book from the shelf, and blew off the dust. She sneezed and tried to see the book’s title but failed as he flipped it open. He began to scan the pages of small writing.
“Hmm, no, there’s nothing Titanic-related going on out east right now. Wait, yes, here we are. A new exhibition is opening at Chicago’s Museum of Science and Industry.”
Jess swallowed her disappointment. Romantic visions of floating down Venice’s canals in a gondola, staring at Mona Lisa’s smile, visiting the British Museum, or even celebrity watching at Martha’s Vineyard faded.
Nothing against Chicago, of course. She’d visited her cousin there as a child, and never forgot the thrill of seeing the perfectly furnished miniature Thorne Rooms at the Art Institute on Michigan Avenue. She still treasured the book her cousin bought her. But her dreams of actually seeing parts of the Titanic had always been linked in her mind with a much more exotic setting.
“Here,” the little man said, pushing an envelope into her hand. “Take a peek at the tickets and itinerary. You won’t be disappointed.”
Her questions about how he’d gathered everything so fast disappeared like fog on a sunny day as she opened the envelope. She slid out the ticket dated April 14, then glanced at the schedule and felt a surge of excitement. A limo would pick her up at her home in Wisconsin and take her downtown. There were stops for lunch and snacks at first-class restaurants. Shopping sites and other attractions along the route were listed. If she preferred, a private plane was available for an extra fee.
“You can stop anytime. Turn it into a several day or all-week excursion if you want. We have connections at the finest accommodations. You’ll find the suites fully furnished, complete with a new wardrobe, our compliments.”
Her eyes widened. “A wardrobe? B-but that isn’t necessary. I have my own clothing. How much does that add to the price?”
“I know our surroundings here . . .” he waved a hand, “. . . are less than satisfactory, but this is one of our oldest branches. Still, we believe in pampering our guests to the utmost. The smallest detail isn’t too small. Everything is taken care of for you at no extra charge.”
He handed her a handwritten bill and nodded.
“Everything is included, hotel, travel, museum admission, drinks, and meals. The garments as well. Inclusive.”
She glanced at the itinerary again. “Okay, I’ll take it.”
“Wonderful!” His face glowed. “Someone will pick you up this afternoon at four o’clock.”
“Today? I still have to pack and—”
“You only need a few personal items. I’m sorry, but booking the ticket starts the time clock. Our trips operate a bit differently than most. We want to get you in before everyone else for your private showing. You can cancel if you feel this is inconvenient.”
She hesitated but a moment. “No, I guess that’s fine. I’ll look for the driver.”
Her mind was still a whirl as she quickly showered and threw some toiletries, a couple outfits, jewelry, and shoes in a suitcase. She arranged for her neighbor to water the plants and sat to wait, still wondering if she was doing the right thing. It was crazy, impulsive . . . and she had to admit, more fun than she’d had in some time. She didn’t bother to call Matt. Let him wonder where she’d gone.
The drive was uneventful, the driver pleasant, the accommodations wonderful. To her surprise, she walked into her hotel suite and there above the queen-size bed hung the painting she’d seen at the travel agency, Maiden Voyage, The Titanic.
A knock on the door made her forget the odd coincidence. She opened it, surprised to find a woman holding two of the most amazing dresses she’d ever seen. The black gown was trimmed with sparkling black jet and ruby glass beads. The gray and white striped linen day dress had a neckline ruched with gray silk and handmade lace.
