Time Travel Omnibus, page 1051
“Well, if this is it for tonight’s entertainment,” said Sylvester, “I should get going. I’ve got a pile of quizzes to grade from a friend’s class I’m covering.” He gave Jon an arched eyebrow.
“Yeah, true that,” agreed Tom. “I’ve still got half a dozen papers to go through.”
Will vanished to the bathroom while Sylvester piled the pizza boxes and the empties together. He took a last look at the glittering apparatus and shook his head. “It is a nice piece of work.”
Jon bowed his head. “Thanks.”
“Now get your damned arse back to classes before Herbert decides he doesn’t need you.”
Tom had paused by one of the family photos at the door. It showed a lean, sideburned man in well-worn clothes standing with a delicate, narrow-hipped woman. Her hair was a wild mane which spilled across her shoulders and tickled the head of a six-year old Jon standing between them. All three smiled at the camera.
He nodded at the picture. “Who is she again, Jon? Your aunt or something?”
“Something like that. Only met her once. I think they were more distant friends of the family or something.”
“She’s a hottie, for sure. Got a real Eurasian Keira Knightley thing going for her, you know?”
“You do realize she’s almost twenty years older than you, right?”
“So she’s a hottie milf, so what? Your uncle’s a lucky man. He paid for your uni, too, didn’t he?”
“Yeah,” said Jon. “He thought I’d do well in physics.” He gave a little chuckle of his own.
Sylvester, Tom, and Will made their way out the door, giving sly winks as Chris offered to stay behind a bit longer and finish cleaning up. Jon stashed half a pizza in the fridge while she set the bottles by the trash. He ducked into the bathroom himself, and when he came back she was crouched in front of the model again. She glanced up at him, standing with the easy smile on his face.
“Would you like to hold it?”
“Are you sure?”
“You won’t hurt it. It’s a bit more solid than it looks.”
She flinched for a moment as the latticework sparked in her hands. It had a good weight. It felt solid. Real. She tilted it in her hands, holding it like an oversized eggshell, and examined the small time machine from new angles. “Jon.”
“Yeah?”
“Why didn’t you show us this?” She’d turned it enough to see the baseplate, and all the engraving there.
J.M.W.
MDCCCXCV
She met his eyes. “Aren’t these your initials?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you hide them?”
“Like all this wasn’t hard enough to believe?”
“So you made this thing yourself. It’s just a joke?”
Jon smiled. It was a bright, Christmas morning smile. “It’s not a joke.” He took the apparatus from her, wrapped it back in its black cloth, and set it down in the drawer. “Getting late, and tomorrow’s a big day. Lots to do.”
She tried, as she often did, to tug at the buttons of his shirt. “I could make sure you get to bed.”
He stopped her hands, as he often did, and gave her forehead a kiss.
“Aren’t American college boys supposed to be completely sex-crazed? You’re setting a horrible example for your countrymen.”
“Out!”
She gave a loud, dramatic sigh and marched to the door. Jon opened it for her and she paused to look at the photo.
“You know, I always thought you looked a lot like him.”
“Yeah,” said Jon. “I do, don’t I?”
MIDNIGHT AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE
Eric Ian Steele
It was Matheson’s thirteenth jump, the longest by far. He wasn’t even sure if the pod would make it. The metal egg threatened to shake itself apart in the tumultuous maelstrom of the timestream. He was more than just relieved when the spinning orb finally stopped revolving around him. Gravity reclaimed his chair, and it met with the titanium base of the otherwise featureless sphere with a hollow bang.
He took a few moments to adjust—the violent motion always made him dizzy. This time he felt sick to his stomach.
He removed his restraints. The chair’s metal base completed the circuit with the bottom of the craft. Ambient lighting flared around him. He depressed the control mechanism on the arm of the chair to open the outer door, and waited to see what lay beyond with baited breathe.
Cocooned within his sphere, it was only the barely perceptible purple aura of the ship’s unified field that prevented him from entering the timestream himself. It persistently occupied his thoughts during jumps. If he or any other object were to penetrate the field surrounding his chair, it would decay instantly. He had never seen the results with a human being, but during test flights he had seen a pocket watch suspended by a chain from the pod’s hull rust into nothing in seconds.
The pod’s oculus dilated without a sound to create an exit. When his chair had connected with the floor, the ship’s computers had automatically scanned the environment using tiny sensors on the machine’s outer skin. The readout on the screen attached to his chair informed him that the air outside was breathable, the conditions for an expedition optimum.
Even so, he grew nervous each time he left the pod—ever since that encounter with the Fascist Government of Greater Britannia in the twenty-second century. Not to mention the alligator population that plagued London after the Great Flood in the twenty-third. That had caught him completely unawares.
He chided himself. He had put his faith in machines enough to travel thousands, even millions of years into the future, yet he could not put his trust in a simple door.
The computer spoke to him. It revealed that his location had shifted as the planet orbited through space. He was now in downtown Chicago. But he knew better than to rely solely on that. The ship was as precise as it could be. It avoided rematerializing in space and would wait until the planet occupied the same location again. Sometimes this meant a gap in his voyages of several hundred years. Often it meant that when he did land, things were not in exactly the right spot.
He had found this out to his cost when visiting New York in the newly-named Mathesonian Period (approximately 3,500 A.D.). The city had fallen into the sea long before then. Humankind had been curiously absent. Fortunately the pod’s computer had warned him. He had been forced to jump forward a few more minutes (three hundred years in fact), by which time the planet had trundled onward. Had it been wrong, he would have found himself submerged at a depth of several hundred feet.
A much more unfortunate series of events had occurred on his last jump, when he travelled forward a few hundred thousand years. The exact date was somewhere around fifty thousand A.D. The air had been breathable then. But the ship hadn’t been able to detect the presence of enormous, intelligent arachnids that had taken over the world since mankind’s extinction. These carnivorous spiders had evolved to camouflage their body temperature from predators. Hence they were invisible to the pod’s heat sensors. He had been out of the pod only a few minutes before they attacked. He had barely escaped evisceration by the skin of his teeth.
Trying to put all this to the back of his mind, he stepped toward the oculus. On the lookout for more spiders, he descended the mechanically unfolding ramp, and found himself in an equally bare metal room.
He scanned his surroundings, wishing he had some kind of further protection. But this trip had been for academic study only. He had never dreamed he could get this far. Unwilling to take the chance that the pod would work twice, he had simply kept travelling further forward into the future before heading back for home.
The chamber was devoid of any kind of instrumentation. Only a giant viewing screen occupied one wall. It depicted an area of space replete with various stars and astronomical bodies. He watched the swirling arm of a spiral galaxy spin lazily through oblivion.
Then he saw it. Against the blackness of the screen, a solitary figure. His back was turned to Matheson—a long dark cloak draped over its body—while its head was topped by a polished jet skull cap. Fear gripped Matheson’s stomach.
The figure did not move. It gazed fixedly at the screen. Matheson now observed that the image in the monitor was advancing toward the viewer with a subtle forward motion. He grew convinced that he was on some kind of ship.
But if that was so, then where was Earth?
The oculus closed behind Matheson; a safety mechanism to ensure he brought no unwanted guests back with him.
At the slight metallic grating, the figure turned. It appeared to be human. It watched Matheson with bored interest, as if this was not the first time-traveler who had been here. And who was to say he was? He realized he had come so very far this time it was almost certainly probable. He had crossed millions, even billions of years. Indeed, the sphere was no longer capable of measuring the distance travelled. He had simply told it to go to the end of the line.
The figure took a step toward him. A faint glow from within the room’s semi-transparent walls illuminated the man. He was approximately six feet three tall. His skin radiated an intense paleness beneath his polished black skullcap. His age was indeterminable. He could have been very young or very old. His long, black cloak disguised the form underneath.
“Welcome,” it said, though its lips did not move.
“Hello,” he ventured. His words echoed in the vessel.
“You have travelled here in that?”
Matheson nodded.
“Through time?”
He nodded again.
“You must be one of the ancestors. They invented time travel. We never bothered with it. Far too dangerous to tamper with the timestream. And who wants to know what fate will eventually befall him?”
Matheson felt crestfallen. It was almost as though the man was accusing him of something.
“So you have come to witness the end of everything?” the man asked. “The end of time?”
The man took a step toward him. Matheson didn’t react. He noticed how fluid the man was. His movements graceful beyond compare. He glanced down two tunnels that lead off in opposite directions from each end of the chamber. Both were featureless.
“You haven’t seen any spiders, have you?” he asked.
“When they returned from the stars they wiped out the spiders,” the man replied. He turned back to the view on the screen. The galaxy was huge, bigger than any Matheson had ever seen, and it rotated with staggering swiftness.
“This is the end of it all,” he said.
Matheson found it peculiar the man could understand him—after all, he spoke what would now surely be a most ancient dialect of English.
“Telepathy transcends all barriers,” the man explained to the unasked question. “We are conversing in concepts and emotions. A much more civilized method of communication.”
Matheson regarded his host with newfound respect, and wariness. Obviously he was no match physically for this man. He was short and pudgy compared to the future man’s almost balletic athleticism. He studied the future man’s physiology. Two eyes with black corneas, a long, hooked nose, a narrow mouth, a prominent forehead. Large hands with long fingers. He noticed that the future man had four joints to each finger instead of three. He was puzzled. He had expected there would be more changes by now. Perhaps, like sharks, they had reached the perfect state of evolution. The man smiled, and the comparison made Matheson uneasy.
As the man watched him silently, he speculated upon the puzzle. Why hadn’t this man evolved further, if he was indeed one of the last vestiges of humanity? Why wasn’t he so much different from Matheson himself? Surely billions of years should have wreaked many more changes on the human body.
“You have many questions. I will attempt to answer them,” the future man thought to him.
“Can you read my entire mind?” Matheson asked. “Even my memories?”
“Indeed. I know all about you,” said the man. “And not just from your own rather interesting experiences. You are Matheson. I have read of you in the histories. You are the pioneer of time travel from the twenty-first century Anno Domini as you measure it. On your first experimental journey in the time capsule, you visited various stages of humanity throughout the ages. It was your discovery of the means to generate the Unified Field that made this possible. Your breakthrough led to the destruction of several major superpowers and the creation of the global state twenty-nine years later. Your indisputable proof of the many wars, plagues, and disasters that would wipe out much of human civilization made many commonplace theosophical doctrines and political regimes redundant.”
So I did succeed, Matheson thought. A strange surge of pride elated him. “Yes, but I can only go forwards,” he said. “If I go backwards I will return to the exact moment when I left. I don’t yet know why.”
“And you never will,” the man said. The knowledge deflated him, despite his prophesized success.
Silence settled between them.
“So what is your name?” he finally asked.
“You may call me Racoczky Saint-Germain,” the man replied. “You are in my vessel.”
“A spacecraft?”
“No. It travels through space, but it is much more than that. I shall simply call it a vessel. We are in the spot the planet Earth occupied long ago, before its atmosphere perished and meteors tore its barren husk apart. Now there is only cosmic dust and fragments of the moon.”
Now Matheson knew what the feeling was that had gripped him the moment he had stepped off the pod. It was the feeling of being in an enormous tomb. He was in the graveyard of Earth. Although it shouldn’t have, the notion depressed him. All that effort, all that evolution gone to waste. All for nothing.
Racoczky stepped up to the sphere, feeling the texture of the craft with his elongated fingers. It looked nothing more than a large metal ball bearing. It bore no exterior controls whatsoever. Even the oculus was set to dilate upon his own biometric pattern.
“I see your machine is actually quite simplistic,” Racoczky said with a faint trace of distain. “Obviously the rapid motion of the exterior of the craft generates the unified field necessary for sustaining the tachyon shield, thereby folding the space-time manifold and allowing for travel in the fourth dimension. Primitive, but ingenious.”
Matheson did not like the man’s patronizing tone. Did they have no manners in the distant future?
“Are you alone here?” he thought to Racoczky. “Are there no others?”
“There were others. They all perished. Died or killed themselves or translated themselves into pure electronic hums. Only I stayed as I am.”
“How big is this vessel?” he asked. “Do you have museums? Artifacts of what went before? I’d be curious to see them.”
“There is nothing,” Racoczky held up a long-fingered hand. “We have no interest in the past. It is gone.”
Matheson staggered a pace backwards, stunned. “Surely there must be something?” he said. “Books? Music? Shakespeare? Beethoven?”
“Gone,” Racoczky answered. “We have no use for anything but technology.”
Matheson stammered. He’d had no idea of the effect this would have on him. Now it seemed that art, culture, everything he held dear, everything that made his life worth living, had gone, to be replaced by . . . what? Soulless machines? He began to eye Racoczky warily. Was the man himself some sort of mechanical construct?
Racoczky smiled grimly.
“I am flesh and blood,” he said, reading Matheson’s thoughts. “But this is all that remains. These empty walls. My vessel is what we call a way station—an object removed from the temporal plane of existence. Here, we exist beyond space-time, no longer subject to the vagaries of physical laws, or the passage of time. In that respect, this craft is a little like myself.”
His eyes widened, “You mean—”
“I am immortal,” Racoczky said. “I neither age nor die. None of us have, since the first treatment.”
“Treatment?” Matheson repeated. “Then this is a medical procedure? An advancement of science that I might take back with me?” he thought. “Please,” he pleaded, sensing the other’s hesitancy. “You must let me know. Men have sought a cure for ageing since time began.”
Racoczky’s thoughts were suddenly shrouded from Matheson—a trick he supposed one learned through countless years of practice. He thought he saw a look of pity in the other man’s dark, piercing eyes.
“The treatment, yes. A vaccine against ageing,” Racoczky said. “We discovered it by accident. Reactivated dormant stem cells by the use of a retrovirus. It was offered to all countries in the Western world.”
Again, Racoczky tuned his back on Matheson to observe the final agonized throws of a dying solar flare from a nearby sun.
“Forgive me if I do not give you my full attention,” he said. “But it’s not every day one sees the final moments of an entire universe.”
“What?” Matheson gaped.
He had not noticed before, but across the vast gulf of space, stars were winking out. One by one, they disappeared in faint explosion.
“This is the moment you have waited for,” Racoczsky told him. “The end of the universe is here.”
Matheson stepped right up to the screen. As he watched, two of the spiral arms of a galaxy collided with each other. The whirlpool-like structure broke apart. In the process, an impossible number of worlds were wiped out.
“Look at that,” Racoczky smiled at the screen. “The last of the universe. Dying. Two hundred million years ago, the milky way merged with the Andromeda galaxy. Throughout the universe, galaxies had died, creating supermassive black holes that pulled the debris and space dust across the cosmos into this—one last, final black hole. Now it is dragging the last remaining star systems toward each other. In a few hours, they will reach critical mass and explode, just like all the others have done. I have been watching this for thousands of your millennia. I have seen countless burgeoning civilizations destroyed. Innumerable stars perish. We call it Charybdis.”
“But what about the immortalization treatment?” Matheson pressed.
