Time Travel Omnibus, page 1150
In this flow, when you identified me as a rival, you set in motion a plan to remove me.
You didn’t anticipate Jane. You didn’t know about her, of course. I did all I could to keep her invisible from you.
You didn’t know I would soon stop flowing. You didn’t know your rival was exiting the arena.
You could argue—have argued—that what happened was my fault. Had I been less skillful at keeping her a secret, you contend, Jane might still be alive. In my darkest moments, I have made that argument myself.
You wonder, occasionally, what might be if Jane hadn’t taken the cup of coffee intended for me, or if the poison had been, not a standard-issue cancer inducer, but rather a poison genetically tuned for me. Do you regret what happened? Do you wish the trap you set for me had been more carefully calibrated?
I expect the answer is no. To you, innocents are immaterial. An individual doesn’t matter if he doesn’t impact the flow.
Let us look again at that last sentence: An individual doesn’t matter if he doesn’t impact the flow. As the first, and only, man in all of human history to gain broad control of a flow, I have the benefit of seeing what happens within this flow. Including, Director, what happens to you.
I can tell you two things: The first is that you, Director, by your own definition, are immaterial. You do not matter because you do not impact the flow.
You want to protest. Your ego demands it. But you know, deep down, I am right.
The second thing I can tell you is this: There is a cancer in your colon. It has spread. In four months, you will be dead.
I wish I did not have to tell you. I wish I could do nothing. I wish I could let you die.
But as I have already noted, my happiness depends on your choice.
Let me tell you about the second flow. In the second flow, except in your memories, I do not exist. Eric does not exist. Our feats, our exploits, never happened. We were never rivals. You never attempted to poison me. You never murdered Jane.
You are still the Director, still the same man, except in one tiny, crucial, respect: When you were a child, your mother took a cooking class and learned to make healthier meals for her family. You grew up eating more fruits, more vegetables. This habit continued into your adulthood.
As a consequence, the polyp in your colon has not yet turned cancerous. It will, in several years, but in this flow, you have time to treat it, to literally nip it in the bud. In this flow, you continue as Director for many more years.
You understand the choice before you. Do nothing, and die in four months.
Or, do this: You remove any and all traps set for me or Eric. You never attempt or take, or allow or enable or suggest or in any way precipitate, any action against anyone Eric or I ever know. You lift the embargo on flows in and out of London on the third day of the sixth month in the year 1923. And you slip this letter into the mail delivered on this day to Miss Jane Seeton, 14 Marylebone Way, London.
If you choose the second choice, I enable the second flow.
This is what you do. You decide now.
I remain,
Now and always,
Benjamin
June 3, 1923
Dear Miss Seeton,
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Benjamin Burden. I am, today, a trader of spices and coffees. But five years ago, in the last months of the war, I was a captain in the U.S. Army in France and had the great pleasure of knowing your brother Charles. We became very close before his death. His warmth and irrepressible cheer were a great boon to us in those dark times, and even now the memory of his laugh brings a smile to my face.
He spoke very highly of you—his devilishly brilliant little sister, he called you—and he urged me, if ever I was in London, to pay my respects.
I am in London at present, staying at the Edgeway Hotel in Leicester Square, and I would be honored if you would allow me to meet you. This will seem presumptuous, coming as it does from a complete stranger, but I feel I already know you. I have a suspicion we will become the greatest of friends.
I look forward to your reply.
With kindest regards,
Forever in your service,
Benjamin Burden
UNSTUCK
D.K. Holmberg
Jason leaned against the old F150 staring at the night, unable to shake the fight with Rachel from his mind, the one she seemed so intent on starting. Moonlight prickled through the oaks he’d planted at the edge of his land and splashed across the paint remaining on the chipped black hood. He sighed as he slid down the edge of the brown paper bag, taking a long slow drink of bourbon straight from the bottle. At least it wasn’t the cheap stuff, the kind that burned when you swallowed it. This went down smooth. Already he felt his head swimming.
Maybe Rachel would be better off without him.
He rocked his head back and stared upward. The full moon, as it seemed to do so often, frowned back at him, seeming to pass judgment. Stars faded into the darkness, as if the heavens themselves sided with Rachel. The rest of the sky looked just as bleak, clouds rolling in from the south, the threat of another August storm hanging in the air. It would be just his luck to get drenched.
Not that it mattered. Not for much longer, anyway.
He sighed, taking another drink. He didn’t even like bourbon but it had been the only booze in the house, bought months ago when his brother-in-law visited, the kind Robbie—Robert now—said he learned to drink while in school out east. Jason had just thrown it in his truck on the way out, grabbing it off the shelf in the garage. If there was a night to drink, tonight was it.
This had been the worst fight yet. And maybe the last.
After two years of marriage, the fights came more frequent. At first they were over simple things. Money, which they never seemed to have enough of, or his job. She always wanted him to do more for himself than just work in the factory, spitting out bolts and nuts at his spot on the line, coming home stinking of grease and grime—now he didn’t even bother to wash it off every day—maybe even take some night courses so he could move up.
He knew what she was saying . . . that she wanted more than him. Maybe that was why she started in on him tonight, telling him he needed to “get unstuck”, whatever that meant.
And Rachel deserved better, deserved more than this little town, hidden on the prairie on the edge of nowhere. She deserved culture, deserved comfort, deserved . . . things he just couldn’t provide. Not here in Little Nord, North Dakota, and not on his income.
Jason sighed, taking another long drink.
He’d known that when he first met her, known that from the first time he saw her in high school, her dark hair flowing down her back, deep brown eyes catching his with an almost bemused expression, that she was out of his league. And somehow she didn’t care. She made sure to go off to college to study business up in Dickinson instead of all the way over in Grand Forks like her daddy wanted her to. Jason made the trip up every weekend, driving his rusty old pickup to campus, always feeling out of place even though she made a point of showing him off. And then, when she was done, she came back home.
Jason should have just let her go after high school. Maybe she would have been happier then. She could have found someone who deserved her.
It sure wasn’t him.
Tonight had been different. Tonight she brought up kids again.
“How can we have kids if we ain’t got no money?”
“We’ll make it work.”
Make it work. No, he understood what she needed even if she didn’t want to admit it.
“Fuck!” he shouted, shaking the bottle at the judgmental moon. The only answer he got was the first cold drops of rain falling on his face.
Jason stayed there, drinking occasionally, letting the rain wash over him, soaking his t-shirt and jeans. Wind started picking up, blowing in with the storm. Even then he didn’t move.
Only when the clouds covered the moon did he decide it was time.
The door creaked mournfully as he opened it. He slid onto the long bench seat, the torn cloth long ago covered by a blanket. The air in the truck smelled like old pine, the faded air freshener hanging from the mirror twirling from the wind streaming through the open door. He gripped the steering wheel, clutching it between his hands and leaning back against the seat, bottle tucked between his legs.
Rain began pelting the truck, huge thick drops that slammed into the metal, like a drummer marching him to the end. Violent streaks of lightning ripped through the night, streaking almost to the treetops, and he jumped, thunder chasing quickly after rumbling the truck.
“Hear you loud and clear,” he slurred.
His head felt heavy but he had a moment of clarity; sleep this off and talk to her in the morning. Let her know that it was okay if she wanted to leave. Let her know that he understood.
Another bolt of lightning shot down as Jason finished off the bourbon. Then another. And another.
Soon there was a flurry of lightning strikes, all shades of blue and purples, colors he had never seen in lightning before. They seemed to flicker around him, and he felt the hairs on his arm rise, a sense of urgency growing.
Most struck just over a nearby ridge. Damn if he would pass out before seeing why.
Jason fumbled with the clutch as he shifted the truck into drive, driving over ground toward the small rise. Lightning erupting in angry waves lit his way and thunder seemed to chase him. As he topped the rise, he stopped, not sure what the hell he was seeing.
Where the lightning struck, the ground below him was charred and glowed. Small fires burned, fueled in spite of the sheeting rain. Huge holes gashed the ground, leaving it looking as if the earth was splitting.
He slammed on the brakes but momentum and earth sopping wet from the recent rains pulled him down toward the flames, toward where the lightning struck the ground.
Another bolt blinded him.
He felt its energy through the truck.
Thunder rumbled.
He was thrown violently, truck and all flung into the sky.
Somehow he was tossed from the cab, flailing against the rain and the night, everything blurring around him. He passed out when his face slammed into the soggy ground. The last thing he remembered was the taste of mud and the smell of oil.
Bright sunlight burned through his closed lids, forcing Jason to flicker his eyes open slowly. Dry grass rested against his cheek and he smelled the thick stink of oil somewhere nearby. His body ached as if he’d just spent the entire day in the saddle.
What happened?
Moments passed before he remembered: the drink, the storm, the truck. Rachel.
Damn. Somehow he was still alive.
He pushed himself slowly up and looked around. Last thing he remembered was sliding over the small rise in his truck. And then the strange lightning surge.
There was no sign of the ridge, no sign of destroyed earth, and no sign of his truck.
Where the hell was he?
No truck meant walking. Already it was hot so he didn’t look forward to a long walk back to town. He staggered to his feet, boots stirring up dry dirt, as he looked for something familiar. His head pounded like he had been trampled by a herd of cattle and his mouth was dry, his tongue fuzzy and thick, and he tasted the dirt he had lain in all night.
Not far in the distance stretched a line of trees, tall oaks with faded leaves, that he suspected signified the river that ran through much of this land. He couldn’t have driven much past the border of his land. Once back on his own land, he would be able to reorient himself, find a way back to town.
He knew what he needed to do. It was time to tell Rachel to move on without him, give her permission to leave.
Jason staggered among the oaks and saw the river cutting through a shallow streambed. With as much rain as they had been having recently, he was surprised to see how low it was. Hadn’t it been nearly flood stage?
“Hey!”
He looked up. A woman came walking along the riverbed wearing leather pants in a strange cut that flared around her hips. A long sleeve shirt of grey and blue had sleeves rolled up over her forearms. A wide brimmed hat tilted on her head. Dark hair bound in a loose tail spilled out beneath. She carried a small box that she slipped into her pocket when she saw him.
“Yeah?” he said.
She froze and frowned, her brown eyes narrowing. The expression reminded him of Rachel. “Are you okay?” she asked.
Jason pushed himself off the dry ground and managed to steady his feet. Dirt stained his palms and he wiped them on his jeans. He squinted against the sunlight, the pulsing in his head making it hard to think straight. “I think so.”
“Then why are you on my land?” she asked. She stood with her hands on her hips, and though she was tiny, she looked as if she demanded an answer.
“Your land?” he asked. His head felt thick and cloudy, but most of the riverbed was his land. He was too hungover to care, too hungover to make a big deal about it, and needed a ride back to town. “Can you get me back to town?”
Her eyes narrowed and she looked him over, staring at his sweat stained shirt and jeans before stopping and staring at his boots. She slid a step toward him, coming up out of the riverbed a little. “Which one?”
Jason shook his head, the question confusing him. How far had the lightning storm thrown him? “Little Nord,” he said.
Her mouth twisted in a bemused expression, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something, but cut off instead. “Come with me,” she finally said.
She started off, not waiting to see if he followed. She took him up to a small dirt road where a sleek grey pickup was parked, hood more sloped than any he’d seen, just a trace of dust coating the shiny paint. He recognized the Ford logo on the front, the same that had been on his, wherever she now rested. Jason hadn’t seen the new models but didn’t much care for them.
He popped open the door and climbed in and sat on a cracked leather seat. The truck had all the new electronics, lights and panels lining the console. Even though it looked new, it had the same smell to it that his truck had, a sense of age and character.
The woman saw his face and shrugged. “Yeah, sorry. Kinda of an older model. Doesn’t have all the newer stuff but she still runs good . . .” She shrugged again. “Besides, kinda hard to keep anything nice out near the field, you know?”
With the pounding in his head, he wasn’t sure he heard her right. “Sure,” he answered, but knew plenty of ranchers with brand spanking new trucks pretty much every year. “Do you have anything for a headache?” he asked.
She grunted and shook her head. “Maybe when you get to Little Nord.” She said the town’s name with a smirk.
“Whatever.” He pressed his hands against his temples and closed his eyes as they started off, waves of nausea rolling through him as they drove.
“What were you doing out by Little Muddy?” she asked after they’d driven a little ways.
So at least it was Little Muddy River. Jason was beginning to wonder what had happened. “Dealing with regret,” he said.
The woman looked over at him. “Why out here?” she asked.
He sniffed and looked out the window. “Trying to find perspective. Make some hard decisions.” Time to let Rachel go, he knew.
She looked over at him. “It can’t be all that bad,” she said.
Jason shook his head. “You ever feel like there’s a part of your life you’re doin’ wrong and it’s easier to just go along and not make any changes?”
The woman watched him for a moment and shrugged.
“Well . . . I’ve finally realized what needs doing.”
“Just because you don’t like your past don’t mean you can’t like your future.”
Jason leaned back and closed his eyes. “Are you some kind of therapist?” he asked.
She chuckled. “Just got common sense. No need to get stuck in time.”
Jason shook his head, thinking that sounded like something Rachel kept trying to tell him.
“So. What’s your name?”
Jason didn’t even bother opening his eyes as they bumped along the dirt road. “Jason,” he mumbled.
The woman grunted, making it sound like a laugh. “Jason, I’m Mel. Where am I taking you?”
Mel? Probably short for Melissa or Melinda, but he didn’t know anybody by that name, especially not anybody that drove such a new pickup.
Licking his dry lips, he rattled off the address.
She grunted again, as if confused, and punched it into the GPS.
Jason finally managed to open his eyes when they reached the flat road. Dust blew across the road, billowing up into a great brown cloud that Mel just whipped through as if unconcerned. It wasn’t until they reached the outer edges of town that the wind settled.
He knew right away that something was off.
Little Nord was a small town, barely more than two thousand people, most living their entire lives in the town. When Jason was a kid, he had once planned to get away from Little Nord, maybe go up over to Bismarck. But then he grew up and he and Rachel settled in. She never had the family problems he knew growing up, never had the father that hit her until he drank himself to death, the mother that never managed to get the strength to fight back, the release of his death freeing her to fuck her way through town.
The only thing his family ever gave him was 200 acres of land outside town, handed down to him after his dad died, farmland that he was never particularly good at farming. The only thing he really loved was walking the land.
The edge of town seemed to have changed overnight. Chuck’s service station, the old Amoco, once marked the south end of town before it broke out onto County Road 5. A small line of storage units stood across the street. Small houses lined the streets on either side, leading toward Main Street. None of that was there.
