Time Travel Omnibus, page 758
“Yes,” I say to Healy. “You will.” The tent is empty except for Bechtel and me. I clean and stow the equipment; he scrubs at the sink. His back is to me. Very low, so that I barely hear him over the running water, he says, “Susan . . .”
“All right,” I say. “I choose. You did it.” I walk out of the bunker. Some soldiers stand outside, at parade rest, listening to their sergeant read the orders for move-out. Guards still ring the place where the Hole used to be. In the sky, above the Low Radar Barrier, a seagull wheels and cries. The elephant is silent. I have never seen my father since.
You might think I should have chosen differently. You might think, given the absence of proof, that like any jury empowered by the Constitution of the United States, I should choose the more innocent reality. Should believe that my father never molested me and that my mother, who is now beyond both proof and innocence, lied. The trial evidence is inconclusive, the character evidence cloudy. If I choose that reality, I gain not only a father, but peace of mind. I free myself from the torments of a past that might not even have happened.
But I would-still be this Susan Peters. I would still watch my nurses tremble with love in the moonlight, and I would still see clearly the deceptions and hurt ahead, the almost inevitable anger. I would still recoil if a man brushes against me accidentally away from the hospital, and still pride myself on never wincing at anything within a hospital. I would still know that I chose Army nursing precisely because here dangerous men are at their weakest, and most vulnerable, and in greatest need of what I can safely give them.
I would still know what Strickland learned: The Hole always closes.
One version of the past has shaped all my of choices. III decide it never happened, what remains? Will I exist? I, Susan Peters, who runs the best combat nursing unit in the entire Army? I, Susan Peters, who have earned both the Commendation Medal and the Distinguished Service Cross? “I, Susan Peters, who can operate on a patient myself if the doctors are occupied with other screaming and suffering men? And have?
I, Susan Peters.
Who was sexually abused by her father, ran away from home, joined the Army, became a nurse, served honorably in the Special Medical Unit assigned to the Battle of Long Island, and have never lied to a patient except once.
And maybe it wasn’t a lie.
Maybe there will be ladies where they are taking Captain John Percy Healy of His Majesty King George Ill’s Twenty-Third Foot. Maybe Healy will stand with some young woman, somewhere, in the moonlight and touch her face with gentle fingers. It’s possible. I certainly don’t know differently. And if there are, then it wasn’t even a lie.
JUST LIKE OLD TIMES
Robert J. Sawyer
The transference went smoothly, like a scalpel slicing into skin.
Cohen was simultaneously excited and disappointed. He was thrilled to be here—perhaps the judge was right, perhaps this was indeed where he really belonged. But the gleaming edge was taken off that thrill because it wasn’t accompanied by the usual physiological signs of excitement: no sweaty palms, no racing heart, no rapid breathing. Oh, there was a heartbeat, to be sure, thundering in the background, but it wasn’t Cohen’s.
It was the dinosaur’s.
Everything was the dinosaur’s: Cohen saw the world now through tyrannosaur eyes.
The colors seemed all wrong. Surely plant leaves must be the same chlorophyll green here in the Mesozoic, but the dinosaur saw them as navy blue. The sky was lavender; the dirt underfoot ash gray.
Old bones had different cones, thought Cohen. Well, he could get used to it. After all, he had no choice. He would finish his life as an observer inside this tyrannosaur’s mind. He’d see what the beast saw, hear what it heard, feel what it felt. He wouldn’t be able to control its movements, they had said, but he would be able to experience every sensation.
The rex was marching forward.
Cohen hoped blood would still look red.
It wouldn’t be the same if it wasn’t red.
“And what, Ms. Cohen, did your husband say before he left your house on the night in question?”
“He said he was going out to hunt humans. But I thought he was making a joke.”
“No interpretations, please, Ms. Cohen. Just repeat for the court as precisely as you remember it, exactly what your husband said.”
“He said, ‘I’m going out to hunt humans.’ ”
“Thank you, Ms. Cohen. That concludes the Crown’s case, my lady.”
The needlepoint on the wall of the Honorable Madam Justice Amanda Hoskins’s chambers had been made for her by her husband. It was one of her favorite verses from The Mikado, and as she was preparing sentencing she would often look up and re-read the words:
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time—
To let the punishment fit the crime—
The punishment fit the crime.
This was a difficult case, a horrible case. Judge Hoskins continued to think.
It wasn’t just colors that were wrong. The view from inside the tyrannosaur’s skull was different in other ways, too.
The tyrannosaur had only partial stereoscopic vision. There was an area in the center of Cohen’s field of view that showed true depth perception. But because the beast was somewhat wall-eyed, it had a much wider panorama than normal for a human, a kind of saurian Cinemascope covering 270 degrees.
The wide-angle view panned back and forth as the tyrannosaur scanned along the horizon.
Scanning for prey.
Scanning for something to kill.
The Calgary Herald, Thursday, October 16, 2042: Serial killer Rudolph Cohen, 43, was sentenced to death yesterday.
Formerly a prominent member of the Alberta College of Physicians and Surgeons, Dr. Cohen was convicted in August of thirty-seven counts of first-degree murder.
In chilling testimony, Cohen had admitted, without any signs of remorse, to having terrorized each of his victims for hours before slitting their throats with surgical implements.
This is the first time in eighty years that the death penalty has been ordered in this country.
In passing sentence, Madam Justice Amanda Hoskins observed that Cohen was “the most cold-blooded and brutal killer to have stalked Canada’s prairies since Tyrannosaurus rex . . .”
From behind a stand of dawn redwoods about ten meters away, a second tyrannosaur appeared. Cohen suspected tyrannosaurs might be fiercely territorial, since each animal would require huge amounts of meat. He wondered if the beast he was in would attack the other individual.
His dinosaur tilted its head to look at the second rex, which was standing in profile. But as it did so, almost all of the dino’s mental picture dissolved into a white void, as if when concentrating on details the beast’s tiny brain simply lost track of the big picture.
At first Cohen thought his rex was looking at the other dinosaur’s head, but soon the top of other’s skull, the tip of its muzzle and the back of its powerful neck faded away into snowy nothingness. All that was left was a picture of the throat. Good, thought Cohen. One shearing bite there could kill the animal.
The skin of the other’s throat appeared gray-green and the throat itself was smooth. Maddeningly, Cohen’s rex did not attack. Rather, it simply swiveled its head and looked out at the horizon again.
In a flash of insight, Cohen realized what had happened. Other kids in his neighborhood had had pet dogs or cats. He’d had lizards and snakes—cold-blooded carnivores, a fact to which expert psychological witnesses had attached great weight. Some kinds of male lizards had dewlap sacks hanging from their necks. The rex he was in—a male, the Tyrrell paleontologists had believed—had looked at this other one and seen that she was smooth-throated and therefore a female. Something to be mated with, perhaps, rather than to attack.
Perhaps they would mate soon. Cohen had never orgasmed except during the act of killing. He wondered what it would feel like.
“We spent a billion dollars developing time travel, and now you tell me the system is useless?”
“Well—”
“That is what you’re saying, isn’t it, professor? That chronotransference has no practical applications?”
“Not exactly, Minister. The system does work. We can project a human being’s consciousness back in time, superimposing his or her mind overtop of that of someone who lived in the past.”
“With no way to sever the link. Wonderful.”
“That’s not true. The link severs automatically.”
“Right. When the historical person you’ve transferred consciousness into dies, the link is broken.”
“Precisely.”
“And then the person from our time whose consciousness you’ve transferred back dies as well.”
“I admit that’s an unfortunate consequence of linking two brains so closely.”
“So I’m right! This whole damn chronotransference thing is useless.”
“Oh, not at all, Minister. In fact, I think I’ve got the perfect application for it.”
The rex marched along. Although Cohen’s attention had first been arrested by the beast’s vision, he slowly became aware of its other senses, too. He could hear the sounds of the rex’s footfalls, of twigs and vegetation being crushed, of birds or pterosaurs singing, and, underneath it all, the relentless drone of insects. Still, all the sounds were dull and low; the rex’s simple ears were incapable of picking up high-pitched noises, and what sounds they did detect were discerned without richness. Cohen knew the late Cretaceous must have been a symphony of varied tone, but it was as if he was listening to it through earmuffs.
The rex continued along, still searching. Cohen became aware of several more impressions of the world both inside and out, including hot afternoon sun beating down on him and a hungry gnawing in the beast’s belly.
Food.
It was the closest thing to a coherent thought that he’d yet detected from the animal, a mental picture of bolts of meat going down its gullet.
Food.
The Social Services Preservation Act of 2022: Canada is built upon the principle of the Social Safety Net, a series of entitlements and programs designed to ensure a high standard of living for every citizen. However, ever-increasing life expectancies coupled with constant lowering of the mandatory retirement age have placed an untenable burden on our social-welfare system and, in particular, its cornerstone program of universal health care. With most taxpayers ceasing to work at the age of 45, and with average Canadians living to be 94 (males) or 97 (females), the system is in danger of complete collapse. Accordingly, all social programs will henceforth be available only to those below the age of 60, with one exception: all Canadians, regardless of age, may take advantage, at no charge to themselves, of government-sponsored euthanasia through chronotransference.
There! Up ahead! Something moving! Big, whatever it was: an indistinct outline only intermittently visible behind a small knot of fir trees.
A quadruped of some sort, its back to him/it/them.
Ah, there. Turning now. Peripheral vision dissolving into albino nothingness as the rex concentrated on the head.
Three horns.
Triceratops.
Glorious! Cohen had spent hours as a boy pouring over books about dinosaurs, looking for scenes of carnage. No battles were better than those in which Tyrannosaurus rex squared off against Triceratops, a four-footed Mesozoic tank with a trio of horns projecting from its face and a shield of bone rising from the back of its skull to protect the neck.
And yet, the rex marched on.
No, thought Cohen. Turn, damn you! Turn and attack!
Cohen remembered when it had all begun, that fateful day so many years ago, so many years from now. It should have been a routine operation. The patient had supposedly been prepped properly. Cohen brought his scalpel down toward the abdomen, then, with a steady hand, sliced into the skin. The patient gasped. It had been a wonderful sound, a beautiful sound.
Not enough gas. The anesthetist hurried to make an adjustment.
Cohen knew he had to hear that sound again. He had to.
The tyrannosaur continued forward. Cohen couldn’t see its legs, but he could feel them moving. Left, right, up, down.
Attack, you bastard!
Left.
Attack!
Right.
Go after it!
Up.
Go after the Triceratops.
Dow—
The beast hesitated, its left leg still in the air, balancing briefly on one foot.
Attack!
Attack!
And then, at last, the rex changed course. The ceratopsian appeared in the three-dimensional central part of the tyrannosaur’s field of view, like a target at the end of a gun sight.
“Welcome to the Chronotransference Institute. If I can just see your government benefits card, please? Yup, there’s always a last time for everything, heh heh. Now, I’m sure you want an exciting death. The problem is finding somebody interesting who hasn’t been used yet. See, we can only ever superimpose one mind onto a given historical personage. All the really obvious ones have been done already, I’m afraid. We still get about a dozen calls a week asking for Jack Kennedy, but he was one of the first to go, so to speak. If I may make a suggestion, though, we’ve got thousands of Roman legion officers cataloged. Those tend to be very satisfying deaths. How about a nice something from the Gallic Wars?”
The Triceratops looked up, its giant head lifting from the wide flat gunnera leaves it had been chewing on. Now that the rex had focussed on the plant-eater, it seemed to commit itself.
The tyrannosaur charged.
The hornface was sideways to the rex. It began to turn, to bring its armored head to bear.
The horizon bounced wildly as the rex ran. Cohen could hear the thing’s heart thundering loudly, rapidly, a barrage of muscular gunfire.
The Triceratops, still completing its turn, opened its parrot-like beak, but no sound came out.
Giant strides closed the distance between the two animals. Cohen felt the rex’s jaws opening wide, wider still, mandibles popping from their sockets.
The jaws slammed shut on the hornface’s back, over the shoulders. Cohen saw two of the rex’s own teeth fly into view, knocked out by the impact.
The taste of hot blood, surging out of the wound . . .
The rex pulled back for another bite.
The Triceratops finally got its head swung around. It surged forward, the long spear over its left eye piercing into the rex’s leg . . .
Pain. Exquisite, beautiful pain.
The rex roared. Cohen heard it twice, once reverberating within the animal’s own skull, a second time echoing back from distant hills. A flock of silver-furred pterosaurs took to the air. Cohen saw them fade from view as the dinosaur’s simple mind shut them out of the display. Irrelevant distractions.
The Triceratops pulled back, the horn withdrawing from the rex’s flesh.
Blood, Cohen was delighted to see, still looked red.
“If Judge Hoskins had ordered the electric chair,” said Axworthy, Cohen’s lawyer, “we could have fought that on Charter grounds. Cruel and unusual punishment, and all that. But she’s authorized full access to the chronotransference euthanasia program for you.” Axworthy paused. “She said, bluntly, that she simply wants you dead.”
“How thoughtful of her,” said Cohen.
Axworthy ignored that. “I’m sure I can get you anything you want,” he said. “Who would you like to be transferred into?”
“Not who,” said Cohen. “What.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That damned judge said I was the most cold-blooded killer to stalk the Alberta landscape since Tyrannosaurus rex.” Cohen shook his head. “The idiot. Doesn’t she know dinosaurs were warm-blooded? Anyway, that’s what I want. I want to be transferred into a T. rex.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Kidding is not my forte, John. Killing is. I want to know which was better at it, me or the rex.”
“I don’t even know if they can do that kind of thing,” said Axworthy.
“Find out, damn you. What the hell am I paying you for?”
The rex danced to the side, moving with surprising agility for a creature of its bulk, and once again it brought its terrible jaws down on the ceratopsian’s shoulder. The plant-eater was hemorrhaging at an incredible rate, as though a thousand sacrifices had been performed on the altar of its back.
The Triceratops tried to lunge forward, but it was weakening quickly. The tyrannosaur, crafty in its own way despite its trifling intellect, simply retreated a dozen giant paces. The hornface took one tentative step toward it, and then another, and, with great and ponderous effort, one more. But then the dinosaurian tank teetered and, eyelids slowly closing, collapsed on its side. Cohen was briefly startled, then thrilled, to hear it fall to the ground with a splash—he hadn’t realized just how much blood had poured out of the great rent the rex had made in the beast’s back.
The tyrannosaur moved in, lifting its left leg up and then smashing it down on the Triceratops’s belly, the three sharp toe claws tearing open the thing’s abdomen, entrails spilling out into the harsh sunlight. Cohen thought the rex would let out a victorious roar, but it didn’t. It simply dipped its muzzle into the body cavity, and methodically began yanking out chunks of flesh.
Cohen was disappointed. The battle of the dinosaurs had been fun, the killing had been well engineered, and there had certainly been enough blood, but there was no terror. No sense that the Triceratops had been quivering with fear, no begging for mercy. No feeling of power, of control. Just dumb, mindless brutes moving in ways preprogrammed by their genes.
It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
