Time Travel Omnibus, page 1020
John grinned. “You know, that’s not really what Paul had in mind when he wrote ‘When I’m Sixty-Four.’ ”
There were, of course, certain things Nick didn’t mention. Like how the island hadn’t been part of the original plan when abductees started showing up. How the company board of directors had initially wanted to have the abductees euthanized—humanely, of course—to minimize expenses; they were supposed to be dead anyway, weren’t they? How a whistle-blower somewhere in the department had leaked word onto the net, forcing the ethical issue and changing the company’s plans overnight in order to avoid a media firestorm. How the total cost of buying and equipping the island meant a travel cost increase of only a few hundred dollars per back-trip. How they continued to euthanize the more dangerous abductees anyway, and just kept it off the books—better that than an island out there full of Mussolinis and Neros and Che Guevaras, everyone agreed.
He didn’t tell John about the advanced aging, either—how, for whatever reason, the abductees got five years older for every actual year. He’d find out about that eventually, of course, but experience had taught Nick that those kinds of revelations were best saved for later in the acclimation process.
Most of John’s questions were about people, as always. He asked about Stu Sutcliffe, who’d been his friend and had died in Hamburg before the Beatles got big. Yes, Stu had shown up, but just once. Most people now didn’t know who he was—and if you were going back for a Beatle, you picked John ninety-nine times out of a hundred, didn’t you?
No, no one had ever brought back Brian Epstein. That always upset John.
Were the Kennedys around? Of course. There was a whole political department, in fact. Lincolns and Roosevelts went there too. So did the occasional Garfield or McKinley. Gandhi and Crazy Horse. Reverend King and Malcolm X. Yitzhak Rabin and Princess Diana and Benazir Bhutto. The Kennedys were the hardest, though, because of how John always took it when he first saw Bobby, and found out his little brother hadn’t outlived him by much. It was even worse when he saw John-John. Those specific moments were why Nick had transferred out of that department as soon as he made senior pay grade.
What were the other departments? There was one for actors and other performers, where the Marilyn Monroes and Bruce Lees and Lenny Bruces went. There was one for artists, writers, and philosophers, which got the van Goghs and Sylvia Plaths and Camuses. Even a Socrates or two. A lot of psych counseling went on there. There was a high-security one for dangerous subjects—not just Hitler and such, but the occasional serial killer or other madman that some sick person thought it would be fun to haul out of the timeline; it seemed every six months or so, some idiot grabbed Jeffrey Dahmer or Vlad the Impaler. There were really serious criminal penalties for that sort of thing, but it didn’t deter everyone.
And then there was the Personal Department.
“What’s that?” John asked.
Nick took a deep breath, let it out. “Well, we do a fair amount of background screening, cross referencing against intended place-time destinations, but we don’t catch everything. Sometimes people go back for their own reasons. To find the mother who died in a fall when they were ten. The estranged brother who had a heart attack before they could reconcile. The daughter who drowned in the backyard pool when she was six.”
He stopped, letting it hang there. Watching the stricken look on John’s face. A drunk driver had killed Lennon’s mother when he was eighteen—it was in his dossier. The thought that he could go back and save her hadn’t occurred to him . . . until now.
When John finally spoke, his voice was quiet, subdued. “That must be . . . a terrible place to work.”
Nick nodded, let the moment pass. He mentioned the smaller departments for sports figures, for scientists, another to catch the ones who didn’t fall into any simple category—Anne Frank, for instance—and that was it. John was out of questions or, more likely, thinking about the Personal Department had drained him of the desire to ask anything more.
“All right, then,” Nick said, and checked the time on his Reader again. Right on schedule—he’d done enough Lennon interviews to know, within a minute or two, when one would end. “That’s your prelim done. Let’s get you to your acclimation group, and you can get started.”
They went out into the hall, Nick leading the way while John followed, silent, thoughtful. They passed the other interview rooms on their way to the elevators. Two were occupied, the first quite crowded because yet another daredevil had decided to grab Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper, and Ritchie Valens all in one go while their plane was going down. In the second sat a big bear of a man with white hair and a beard.
“That looks like that bloke from the Grateful Dead,” said John.
“It is,” Nick said. “You’d remember him younger—he died about fifteen years after you.”
When their elevator came, Michael Jackson was on it, but of course John didn’t recognize him at all. They eyed each other, and Michael got off on one of the counseling floors. Nick and John rode the rest of the way alone, and headed out onto another floor that looked just like the one where they’d gotten on: beige carpet, gray walls, acoustic tiles, and LED lights.
The only strange thing was the artwork on the walls—paintings by Andy Warhol and Frida Kahlo, photos by Diane Arbus—though none of it had been produced in their lifetimes, of course. One of the nice things about working at Timeshares was the amount of art that was always flying around from men and women whose deaths hadn’t stopped their urge to create. Nick even had a Kirchner in his living room, though no gallery would ever accept it as real because it was only two years old. That sort of thing was one of the perks of working in Anachronisms—like all those Versace suits.
“The practice spaces are this way,” Nick said, leading John down the hall. “We’ve got plenty of instruments and recording equipment, and the best pool of band-mates you could ever want. We even have your Rickenbacker around here somewhere—your wife gave it to us a while back, before she passed on.”
“Yoko . . . she knew about this place?” John asked.
“She used to come here sometimes, to see you.”
“Oh.”
Nick went on, not letting him dwell. “Anyway, the guitar’s yours—you can play it whenever you want. Assuming one of the other Lennons hasn’t grabbed it first, of course. This floor’s open day and night, if you want to record anything or just jam.”
A muted noise, like the world ending, was rumbling away behind one of the doors, a red light shining above. They paused to crack the door open, Nick smiling.
“I love this band,” he said.
The music was so loud, it made them both wince—and this was only the control room, not the actual practice space. They walked past a couple of staff engineers and peered through the glass. A five-piece was cranking out something incredibly grinding and heavy, like a prehistoric beast rumbling through some primeval jungle.
On drums, John Bonham. On bass, John Entwistle. On vocals and rhythm, Joe Strummer. On slide guitar, Robert Johnson. And playing the organ and singing backup . . .
“Good God,” said John, “That’s me.”
The other Lennon didn’t see him. He just pounded on the keys, glasses off, thundering away with the godfathers of rock and metal, punk and the blues.
“They’re damn good,” John said after a while.
Nick nodded. “Every now and then, we leak a song from one of the house bands into the market. The revenue from the downloads paid for a fair chunk of the island. Of course, no one’s ever figured out who these bands are, but the music stands for itself. This bunch calls itself The Afterparty.”
He glanced at John and grinned. Lennon had the look in his eyes—the same gleam pretty much all the musicians got when they realized what they could do here. He wanted to start a band and get playing right now.
“Don’t worry,” Nick said. “You’ll have your chance. And it’s even better on the island. There’s even an all-Lennon band there, I hear. Named John and the Johns. Come on, let’s find your group.”
Things got quiet again down the hall. Through a couple crash-bar doors, around a corner, and here were the larger meeting rooms, a few with doors shut. Meetings under way. “You’re in room 518, right here,” said Nick, stopping outside one door. “Nothing to worry about, no expectations yet. You’ll get to know the others in your group, then learn what’s happened in the world since you died. Basic stuff first, the end of the Soviet Union, global warming, the net, China’s lunar colony. They’ll give you a Reader after lunch so you can look stuff up on your own. When class is done, one of the staff will show you to your dorm.”
John nodded, bemused. “What about you?”
“I’ll be checking in with you tomorrow,” Nick said. “And every day till you’re acclimated. After that, you’ll head to the island.”
“When will that be?”
Nick shrugged as if he didn’t know, though this was a Lennon and so he did. “Could be three months, could be six, or even a year. Whenever you’re ready.”
Which would be four and a half months, give or take a couple days. Always was.
“Here’s my card,” Nick said, and handed one over. “Message me on your Reader if you need to talk. Otherwise, I’ll see you at nine tomorrow.”
John looked at the card, shifting it to change the rainbow hues of the Timeshares hologram. Then he tucked it into his shirt pocket. He opened the door and walked into a conference room. Georges Bizet was sitting at the long table, with Glenn Miller to his left. Then Patsy Cline. Notorious BIG. Charlie Parker. Selena. And, yes, two other Lennons.
“Hello there,” he said. “I’m John.”
Nick shut the door and started back up the hall. He was getting off the elevator and heading back to the interview rooms when his Reader rang. He tapped the screen, saw an image of the incoming caller, and picked up.
“I was wondering when you’d phone.”
The man on the other end said what he always said. “Yes, of course,” Nick said. “I’ll arrange it for tonight.” He hung up, got to the interview room, took a deep breath, and walked in. Sitting at the table was a young man of thirty-five, pale and sickly-looking and bewildered. He was one of the few who, though ill, still survived abduction. Most of the time, anyway.
“Guten Tag, Wolfgang Amadeus,” Nick said.
The group breaks up, finally, at six, the sky dark now outside the window, the rain still coming down. They leave, one by one, some going to dinner, others back to their rooms. Bird and Biggie head to the studios to jam. The other Lennons leave without trying to talk to him, which is a relief. He’s still not sure how to make conversation with them; it feels too much like going crazy.
The group leader, an enthusiastic young black woman named Erica, is talking with a man in a black hat and string tie, with a patch of hair on his lower lip—another new arrival whose name John can’t remember. Stevie something, apparently quite good with a guitar. Erica has promised to take them both to their rooms, to point them toward the cafeteria, and show them the amenities. John just wants to go to bed.
This has been the longest, strangest day of his life.
Or, he supposes, not of his life.
Whichever.
He is surprised, then, when there’s a knock on the meeting room door and it’s Nick Mendez. A bit relieved, too. There’s no shortage of familiar faces around here, but Nick’s at least doesn’t bring to mind an obituary John once read.
“Good evening,” John says.
“Hi, John. I’m going to just steal you away, if that’s all right with Erica.”
Nick looks at her, and she makes a twisting motion with an upraised hand-whatever you want to do. “Just make sure he knows his way around the dorm after you’re done,” she says, and she and Stevie leave.
“What’s going on, Nick?” John asks. “I thought you said tomorrow morning.”
“Plans have changed,” Nick replies. “You have a guest. Come with me.”
At once, John has a feeling, like a jolt of electricity running through him. He knows who someone is, but he doesn’t say anything. Saying it feels too likely to make it untrue. Pushing up his glasses, he follows Nick out into the hall, to the elevators, and back up to the interview rooms.
John’s heart hammers in his chest the whole way.
“I didn’t know we could have visitors,” he says. “Aren’t we supposed to be secret from the rest of the world?”
“From the general public,” Nick replies. “A few people are allowed in, provided they sign a non-disclosure agreement. Even then, though, security’s pretty tight.”
They’re at the door now, and John is sweating. He swallows. “Go on, then,” he says. “Let’s see who it is.”
Nick opens the door and steps back, saying nothing. John steps in through the door. And Sean turns to greet him.
His Sean. Five years old when this long, long day began. Now he must be almost sixty, nearly twenty years older than John himself. He’s wearing the same round, wire-frame glasses. Aside from the gray hair and a bit of Yoko in the eyes, like a ghost, it’s like looking in a mirror.
“Hi, Dad,” he says.
The tears come, swift and unstoppable. Yielding to them, John goes, at last, to his son.
BY OUR ACTIONS
Michael A. Stackpole
The Timeshares helicopter thundered around the mountain. This has to be bad. The mantislike air-ship unsteadily lowered itself into the meadow. The pine trees downslope of the cabin hid it, but the fluttering roar of the copter’s rotors echoed from the mountains. Men shouted below and he caught the flash of the first of Jacobsen’s phalanx coming up the crooked path.
Logically he should have put the ax down and readied himself to greet his old employer’s envoy, but he couldn’t. Jacobsen had violated the promise to leave him in peace. Doesn’t matter. The answer’s no.
Perry gripped the ax tightly to stop his body’s trembling.
Then Jacobsen himself appeared, still dressed for the heart of the city. Perry’s mouth went dry. It can’t be.
Jacobsen adjusted his tie—college striping, full Windsor knot—and played at brushing a spot of mud from his black suit’s knee. He smiled, making it carry up into his eyes, and made eye contact. He extended his hand several muddy steps shy of level.
“It’s good to see you again, Perry. The mountain air has done you well, old friend.”
Perry stared at the proffered hand as if it was a snake. His own right hand bore the ax. He swung it up, then rested it on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t be here. Please go.”
“Give me five minutes, Perry.” Jacobsen glanced back over his shoulder as his hand drifted down. “On the copter.”
Perry shook his head. “Whatever you need, I can’t do it. Won’t.”
“I need to convince you otherwise.”
“You can’t.”
The white-haired man’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve lost a leper.”
The shakes hit Perry so hard he dropped the ax. “You lost . . . how could you? You promised!”
“Sometimes promises have to be broken.”
“And this one broke time?” Perry closed his eyes, then muttered a prayer. He used the time afforded him in picking up the ax and burying it in the chopping block to get control of himself. He shifted fear into anger, his eyes opening into narrow slits. He spitted Jacobsen with a stare. “How could you have been so stupid?”
Jacobsen turned, starting back down toward the helicopter. “I will brief you en route. We really have no time to waste.”
“Funny to hear that from you.” Back in the early days of Timeshares that had been a running joke. They had all the time in the world since they could go anywhere, do anything. Perry might have laughed out of habit, but Jacobsen’s flat delivery underscored the urgency of the situation.
Perry swung into the copter easily enough—old habits never really die, just lay dormant. The chemical scent of aviation fuel filled his head, adding to his queasiness. The rolling clack of doors closing, the thrumming thunder filling the cabin, all things that reminded him of days he’d hoped to forget.
A bodyguard handed him a helmet and plugged him into the communications system. The helmet selected the executive frequency as Perry strapped in. As if the click of Perry’s restraints had freed the craft from gravity’s grip, the helicopter leaped into the air with a lurch. It left Perry’s stomach on the ground.
Jacobsen, belted onto the bench beside him, passed him a tablet reader. “Everything you need to know is in there.”
Perry shook his head. “Why did you do it?”
Jacobsen’s gaze hardened as he reached over and turned the tablet on, then tapped open an app. A picture appeared. “That is Senator Harrison Smelton, religious conservative from north Texas. He chairs the Senate select committee on scientific research. He came to us and suggested that he was going to hold hearings into exactly what we do at Timeshares.”
“He never should have known about Timeshares.” Perry had been one of the company’s first scouts. It had been made painfully clear to him that time travel wasn’t going to be a Greyhound Bus kind of a vacation. The ultrarich, maybe some research trips, but not common knowledge in the early days. If folks even imagined time travel was possible, every economic boom and bust cycle would be blamed on profiteering by Timeshares customers. Timeshares had created the cover story of a virtual-reality touring package and even provided the same in some franchise operations. Those satellite facilities helped screen for potential high-end customers, but Jacobsen had been dead set against government regulation from the beginning.
“After you left, we had a couple clients dog-bone us.” Jacobsen tugged at his shirt cuffs. “We dealt with most of them, but one of the early ones made a killing selling some artifacts he’d buried and dug up later. He hadn’t gone for significant stuff, just did a time capsule with some rare baseball cards, comics, that sort of stuff. Smelton courted him for campaign contributions. They became chummy and, one night over cigars and a bottle of scotch that had also been in this guy’s trove—stuff that went missing during Prohibition, nice planning on his part—he confessed. Then I got a call.”
