Time Travel Omnibus, page 945
The sound of a window opening behind him made Jack turn his head to look behind him. The window of the lone upstairs dormer in the Tavermeier home, which he could have sworn had been closed, was now open, its curtains fluttering softly in the breeze. And there, framed in the window, was Lana, waving good-bye.
Jack raised his hand and waved back, a faint smile ghosting across his mouth. Then again, maybe she will be better off. He continued on down the street. He had lost track of how many minutes he had left in this time, but figured that the return hole would be appearing very soon. Which begs the next question: am I going back?
In all their research at the military redoubt deep in Cheyenne Mountain, they had never been able to answer the age-old questions of time-travel paradox. Jack knew that if he did go back, he would face a swift trial for unauthorized use of military equipment during a time of war, and most likely be accused of treason and anything else the government could cook up.
Perhaps I will be able to stay here, he thought, even as the logical part of his mind figured that would be impossible, especially if Irena’s theory was correct, and that the laws of the universe tended toward order. As a man displaced out of the time he should be in, that left a whole lot of unknowns that possibly might come crashing down on him. I could end up disappearing for good, vanishing from the universe forever. I could explode in a burst of complete cellular disintegration. I could—just end up staying here, trapped forever in the past.
A spark of white light across the street caught his attention, and Jack walked toward it, knowing that the return timehole was opening, growing to form a rift in the continuum that would enable him to enter it, if he desired. On its edge, he hesitated for a moment, taking one last look around, particularly at the house halfway down the block. He thought of the little girl who lived there . . . and what she might accomplish in the hopefully new future that stretched out before her.
Goodbye, Mom.
“I hope you both realize the jeopardy that your colleague has placed us in with this hazardous and incredibly foolish stunt,” the general said. “Yes, we were certainly hoping that this program could be used to change the past, to divert the timeline of crucial events so that our world wouldn’t be nearly destroyed in the War against China. In time, we had hoped to send people back to accomplish certain—missions—to ensure that the war never happens in the first place. But now, thanks to Doctor Hollister’s egocentric little jaunt, all of that is possibly in very real danger.”
David’s jaw dropped, mirroring Irena’s shocked expression. “Sir, have you even given a thought to what you’re saying? The consequences of trying to alter the time continuum could be disastrous, even catastrophic. We don’t know if it is even possible to do what you’re suggesting.”
“Well, I guess we’re about to find out,” the general said. “Just by going back in time, Doctor Hollister has already altered events, even it he does nothing, correct?”
“Yes, the very fact that he is there could potentially alter time, and change the future. However, as we’ve already said, we won’t know about it, since the reality we exist in is occurring right now, already around us, created every second.”
“But does that mean he will shift that time stream over to another, different path?”
“I think we’re about to find out,” David said, waving them over to the monitor that showed the time displacement chamber, now containing a blinding white glow that was spreading to every corner of the room. “The return cycle is starting.”
Jack shielded his eyes enough to block most of the glare from the dazzling light that appeared in front of him. But he couldn’t help watching as other things began to appear in the incision between the two time periods.
He saw Lana going to school, then entering college as he had hoped, then graduating with her degree and going to medical school—
But then a different scene appeared, and he watched Lana under very different circumstances, pregnant and alone in what looked like a grimy third-story walk-up apartment building, with tears running down her face as she sat at a battered kitchen table—
What’s going on here? he wondered, just as another view of her appeared, this time in a corporate board-room. His mother, looking about forty years older, was dressed in a tailored pantsuit and presenting some kind of make-up line to the people seated in the room. Above her head was a company logo: Striver Cosmetics—
The scene changed again, and he saw Lana dressed in a black robe and with her right hand raised and her left hand on a Bible, taking some kind of oath of office—
As Jack watched, he saw hundreds, then thousands of alternate Lanas, each one following a new path to a varying conclusion. Some of the different versions of his mother were cut down by accidents or disease, some were the victims of crime or poverty, and many went on to accomplish careers, marry and raise a family, or, in some of the best cases, both. The images flowed over and around each other, like hundreds of thousands of different life paths that his mother could take, branching off from this moment—
—Including the same one she might have continued on after I spoke to her, Jack thought. Irena was right after all; it doesn’t matter whether any of us go back in time to try and change things; all that does is create a new, separate reality, in which that choice is played out, and all of the other, different decisions after that.
So if every choice creates a different line, then there are billions—no an infinite number—of alternate worlds being created every second of every day.
But what will happen to me now that I’ve stepped out of my timeline and changed things? I mean, I still exist, because somewhere in all of these infinite timelines, she met and married my father, and apparently still had at least one child—I think. So I will not disappear like a figment of so many fevered pulp writers’ imaginations. But would I still go back to that moment—would I still exist in that future?
Before he could even ponder the ramifications of answering his own question, Jack stepped into the glowing white rift and blinked out of existence from Oak Street in Duluth, Minnesota, in July, 1948.
“The universe moves toward order,” Irena whispered under her breath as the white light faded, revealing Jack standing in the middle of the displacement chamber, looking around with a satisfied expression on his face.
The general unsnapped the flap covering his pistol. “Guard! I want you to arrest that man—”
David limped forward. “Wait, general, consider what you are doing right now. Jack Hollister is the only human being to have successfully traveled through time—assuming that the man in there is indeed Jack. If you lock him up now, years, perhaps decades of research will be lost to us, and we would be no closer to seeing if your goal is even possible.”
The general glared at David, his hand hovering over his pistol, then motioned the guard back to his position. “You get everything out of him you can, and then he’s mine, understand?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
* * *
Jack opened his eyes to find himself in a vast forest, with a small, bustling town composed of dozens of clapboard building that ringed a large, frenetic port on the shore of Lake Superior.
The sound of whuffling horses and creaking wagon wheels made him turn to see a buckboard and team pull to a stop nearby. A man in a homespun shirt and well-worn canvas pants regarded him. “Wherever did you come from? I would have sworn this road was empty a moment ago.”
Jack regarded him with a frown. “That would be almost impossible to tell you, sir, so I’ll just say I come from a very, very far away place. Mind if I get a ride into town?”
“Ayuh, hop on up here. I can take you to the mill on the outskirts, then you’re on your own.”
Jack looked around with a smile. “That sounds just fine.”
The white glow faded, and Jack found himself back on Oak Street, everything around him unchanged. For a moment he thought about going back to see his mother, then he shook his head, turned around, and began walking down the street in the opposite direction.
Jack winked into existence in a thick forest, and stumbled around just long enough to attract the attention of a hungry cave bear that stalked, killed, and ate him in 1948 BC.
Jack . . .
OYER AND TERMINER
Joe Masdon
April 19, 1692
“Abigail Hobbs confessed to being a witch today before the court.”
The sound of three slowly rocking chairs was the only noise on the porch for the next few minutes. Hands worked busily at patching small tears in shirts, knitting a small blanket, and shelling early season peas. A low whistle finally came from the youngest woman, and a hunting dog stood up from the steps and padded his way around the house. Pausing to sniff the air a few times, the dog raised his leg at a fence post, marked his territory, and finished his walk around the yard.
The old bloodhound had baggy eyes, and his tongue lolled from his mouth as he panted lightly. He stretched out near the corner of the house. It was early spring, and the New England air still held a chill in it. The bloodhound’s spot was in the sun, and he closed his eyes as if to take a nap.
“No surprise about Abigail. The poor young girl would confess to being a butter churn if she thought it might shock those men.” This came from the tall, rail-thin older woman who was shelling peas.
“She did certainly spend enough of her life being used as a butter churn—more like a butter churn than a witch by any account,” came a muttered invective from a woman whose small gnarled hands were creating a baby blanket.
“Now, now, don’t go being spiteful, Agnes. The poor dear has never been in her right mind, least not since . . . that business when she was younger.” All three heads nodded briefly, sadly, at the truth behind the words of the youngest on the porch.
“Well, not the first to suffer such business, our young Abigail, nor will she suffer the last, I fear.” Fingers flexed slowly, taking a break from the labor with the peas.
Repositioning the shirt, the youngest continued, “Even so, Constance, while it is the girl’s nature to be inappropriate, I wonder at the things she claimed. Poor thing said she pinched those three young girls at the devil’s bidding and flew on a witch’s pole to dark meetings with others of the village.”
Disapproving frowns and clucks came from the two older women. “Why didst she make such an outrageous claim, Ruth? I hope all in attendance did see her stories for the twisted yarns they were.”
“I fear not, Constance. Judge Hathorne and Captain Sewall were most interested in her tale. It came as quite a shock to the gallery, let me tell you, when she talked of her parents being witches, too.”
“That ungrateful child! Deliverance Hobbs, a witch? Foolishness!” Agnes scowled as she shook her head.
“They took much truth from her tales, as though she spoke gospel. Names were put to paper, and Sheriff Walcott didst hold the paper most solemnly when he was given it.” Agnes snorted quietly as she heard this.
Agnes held up the blanket, examining it for some nonexistent flaw, “First Tituba, and now Abigail. How many others must falsely claim to be Satan’s brides to appease these men?”
For a few minutes, there was no conversation on the porch, just rocking. Peas were shelled with a bit more agitation, and stitches were made a little tighter. The sound of gentle rocking continued unabated.
“Stupid color-skinned Indian sow,” Agnes spat.
“Her and her backwards voodoo talk. Got all those little girls all turned around with her words of fortune telling and bespelling men’s hearts,” Ruth agreed.
“Do not show pity too quickly on all those girls. I believe they have some knowledge of what they are doing. The contortions of young Parris and her cousin we all three knew as grain-fed when first we were told, despite Dr. Griggs being befuddled as a man on his wedding night.”
Constance and Ruth nodded their agreement.
“But I do not see as anyone would have given them any of the purple rye since Tituba got jailed.”
“I am most put out by Mercy Lewis, for I had hopes for her.” Constance irritably threw an empty pod to the porch.
“It’s the men I most hold in harm for this day. To follow the Book, and to try to do the Lord’s work is one thing, but to let girls lead you astray when you ought know better is unconscionable.” The baby blanket felt warm to Agnes’ frail old hands.
“Aye, a problem not uncommon in Salem, is it; men acting unconscionably in the presence of girls, young and old.” Constance was becoming agitated, and her voice started to rise. “Parris and his . . .”
A snuffling bark came from the corner of the yard. The gentle sounds of rocking returned, along with a subdued humming, halfway through a hymn.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” A strong voice came from the front of the yard. “Might I come visit and share a bit?” The man held his hat, and absently patted the large bloodhound who had padded casually over to him.
“Well, of course, Mr. Samuel Wardwell.” Constance’s lined and weathered face smiled with genuine motherly warmth.
“You’re very kind, ladies.” The large hound followed him lazily and laid down at the steps when Wardwell joined the women on the porch.
“I hate to bear unpleasant news, but have you heard that Judge Hathorne pulled a confession of witchcraftery from Abigail Hobbs today?” If he found the news unpleasant, it was clear that he was nevertheless eager to be the one to make the delivery.
“My word, no!” Constance dropped her hands slowly, looking genuinely surprised.
“Goodness, Mr. Wardwell, what on earth did she say?” Agnes demurred.
“Well, ladies, I do hate to shock, but she claimed that she had pinched at poor Elizabeth Parris and her cousin Abigail Williams at the heed of the Devil. She confessed that she did fly by witch pole to a gathering right here in Salem Village, and that other witches are among us! I am just come from the court where she made her confession not thirty minutes ago!”
“My sakes, Mr. Wardwell, suren the child was being fanciful! I do hope the judges set a switch to her to see if the truth could be had.” Constance and Ruth nodded agreement.
Samuel Wardwell pulled back at the notion. “I fear she spoke truth. She proclaimed with such recollection and detail that it chilled me as I sat. I daresay the room itself grew colder as she spoke. Further, all the while, poor Elizabeth and her cousin, the younger Abigail, were twisting and groaning in the court, in ways most unnatural. Such afflictions seemed only to stir the awful confession from the witch Abigail, as if she took devilish strength from their torment.”
The three women sat stunned on the porch, shaking their heads. “Well, Mr. Wardwell, I am glad you have shared the truth of it with us. Without your direct account, we might not know the truth of it all.” Constance said.
“Ladies, I fear our own neighbors might become revealed as doing the devil’s work in this fine village. I must return to Andover on the morrow, so my prayers are with you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wardwell, and ours with you,” Ruth nodded as he left.
After Samuel Wardwell departed, pea pods and clothing remained untouched. The chill New England breeze carried Samuel Wardwell along to another porch where he hurried to deliver the ill tidings.
“What do we do?” Ruth asked.
One of the chairs began rocking slowly, and a baby blanket was picked back up, “We do nothing. You heard him. At the very suggestion that the girls might be dissembling, his own tendency was to make his memory more than it was. We do not speak against this. We are especially careful not to . . .”
A soft woof from the front yard was followed by the sound of three chairs gently rocking, and three kindly women humming hymns as they smiled and waved pleasantly to passing neighbors. Many stopped to discuss news of a second confession with the three kindly goodwives.
June 15, 1692
Their husbands walked ahead of the women under the pretense of discussing business while they returned from church. The women were also discussing business.
“Reverend Parris did go on from the pulpit today, did he not?” Ruth walked slowly to accommodate Agnes’ pace and to maintain distance from their husbands. “Very Godly of him to try to save our souls from witchery, wouldn’t you say?”
“Like they saved Bridget Bishop?” sniped Constance. “I still cannot believe that they hanged that woman.”
“Serves her right. Always harsh with words and spiteful to others was our Bridget. Three husbands dead and never a nice word for anyone.” The words came slowly, matching the pace of the small, fragile legs. “She hanged because hanging her was easier than not. She cavorted with men not her husband, and a great many of them. Such a woman gets no care from me, even when the rope draws tight. Standing before the magistrate is late for one to show courtesy and respect to others.”
Chastised a bit, the youngest took the wisdom of the eldest’s words. “Parris’ daughter and the Putnam girl sat beside the judges as if they were lawyers themselves, and privileged to stand judgment.”
“They are standing judgment. And we must all now fear these unbled girls as surely as if their displeasure was death itself.” Agnes slowed to rest. A hawk flew far overhead. “They play with the lives of the people in this village as casually as they play in the church-yard.”
“Again, my anger is for the men who hang on these girls’ every word. For Putnam and Parris, it holds no surprise, as the little bitches are their own blood. But I feel an especial loathing of these men whom Governor Phips sent to oversee this Court of Oyer and Terminer. Judge Stoughton in particular has become a favorite of mine for . . .”
A distant screech from above went unheard by most.
“. . . his tireless devotion to the Lord and his selfless pursuit to keep our village safe. May the Lord bless him,” came the words a bit louder than they started.
