Time Travel Omnibus, page 994
They made slow time in the increasing darkness, with frequent stops to check the compass and odometer readings against the map. Despite the darkness, they rode with their lights off. They had no wish to attract bandits or wolves.
“It’s amazing how well one can see in the dark,” said Paul as he rode, “after the eyes become dark-adapted.” He stopped for a map check. “Except for reading maps.”
“What will happen when you throw the switch on your capsule?” said Vicki, stopping her bike and looking over Paul’s shoulder at the map.
“The island of Britain should swap back into the twenty-first century.”
“But we’re on the eleventh century version,” said Vicki. “What will happen to us?”
Paul put away the map and bit his lower lip. “I think that since we weren’t on it originally, we can’t be swapped back with it—conservation of mass. I think we’ll stay in the twenty-first century.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, I think.” Paul remounted his bike and started away.
Vicki hurried to catch up. “And if you’re right,” she said, pausing for breath, “where will we wind up?”
“Probably at Richardson’s nexus—where he threw the switch on his module.” A few seconds later Paul added, “And we probably won’t be harmed—for the same reason the planes probably didn’t crash—avoidance of excessive quantum changes.”
“Probably!”
“I’m sorry.” Paul threw her a glance. “It’s the best I can theorize at the moment.”
At their next compass and map stop, Vicki asked, “What if it doesn’t work?”
“We just go back to the Isle of Wight. I’m sure Richardson, in his England, will find a solution.” Paul cast a glance at the sky, what little he could see of it through the tree branches. “I’m sure of it.”
“Richardson’s England,” said Vicki, in a voice filled with yearning. “A modern England in a . . . an eleventh-century world?”
“Yes.” Paul explored the idea. “And in an eleventh-century Solar System—I think.” He lowered his eyes from the canopy—and froze. “Uh-oh!” Ahead, a band of sturdy men stood firm, like truncated oaks among the forest’s mighty trees. Most carried spears, the rest, swords. These were not scared villagers. Catching movements out of the corners of his eyes, Paul saw more men coming from left and right. There was no escape. And Paul had no illusions that Vicki reciting Beowulf would help.
Vicki seemed to understand that as well. “This is serious,” she whispered. “It’s a raiding party. Norwegian or Danish, I think.”
One of the men ventured forward and barked out some words. They sounded like a command. Then, as the men began to converge on them, Vicki threw her hand to her forehead and as her hand came away, a brilliant blue-white light shone out illuminating the man in front. He froze like a statue.
Paul, embarrassed by the slowness of his reaction, switched on his LED lamp as well. Then, swiveling his head from side to side, casting a beam over the raiders, he screamed loudly and gutturally. He bore heavily down on the pedals and felt his bicycle lurch forward. He could see Vicki leaning on her pedals as well. The men in front didn’t give way—but neither did they move to stop them.
Unimpeded, the two bicycles raced by the men. Only after Paul and Vicki had pedaled furiously for about five minutes did Paul dare to look behind. He signaled a halt. “Okay. We can rest now.”
From then on, they rode with their lights on.
A little after midnight, Paul signaled their final halt. He dismounted and eased his bicycle to the ground. “This is, as close as I can tell, Southampton University.” He gave a soft yet harsh laugh. “The grounds of the university, that is.”
Vicki swung off her bike, threw down her knapsack, and collapsed beside it. “I am really tired.”
“Yeah, me too.” Paul took off his pack. He knelt beside it and brought forth the capsule. Opening the control panel cover, he moved his hand to a red-colored toggle. “This is the switch.” Then he pulled back his hand.
“What’s the matter?” said Vicki. “Why didn’t you flip it? Don’t you think we’re close enough?” Paul turned off his LED lamp so he could look at Vicki without blinding her. Vicki turned off hers as well.
“I’ve been thinking.” Paul, feeling a surge of affection, gazed at his friend. “I really don’t know what might happen. It could be very dangerous. While I’m willing to risk my life, I’m not going to risk yours.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Only one of us is needed here.” Paul reached in his pocket and handed Vicki the map. “You should go back to the lifeboat and row back to Cowes—or at any rate, row as far as you can into the Solent. I’m sure some craft will pick you up.”
Vicki canted her head. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Our Southampton might materialize right on top of us. We could be killed.”
“Do you really think that could happen?”
“No,” said Paul. “But it might. I’ll stay here and wait as long as I can—until morning hopefully, maybe longer. Then I’ll throw the switch. Whatever happens, you’ll be safe. I want you to be safe.”
“Paul.” Vicki hesitated. “Paul, I’m not going to leave you here.”
“You’ve got to.”
“Not bloody likely!” With a quick, sinewy motion, Vicki darted her hand to the capsule and threw the switch.
The capsule emitted a whirring sound, the same sound Paul had heard over the phone when Richardson activated his device.
Then, suddenly, water and darkness. Paul, gurgling water, felt himself sink. He pawed upward but the weight of his clothing and shoes dragged him down. He felt one foot contact a complex of hard, rodlike structures—My bicycle! He let his legs fold under him, then sprang up with all his strength, expelling the last of his air with the exertion.
He pawed the water above, felt his body slide upward, and after a few agonizing seconds his head broke the surface. He coughed out water and took a frantic breath before sinking again. Rolling into a ball, he yanked off his shoes and again fought for the surface. His ears cleared and he heard splashes to his left as his head cleared the water.
“Vicki,” he gasped. “Is that you?” He blew out some more water. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” came a labored voice.
Through water-blurred eyes, Paul saw a glowing redness in the distance. Treading water, he shook his head and blinked a few times to clear his vision. The red glow resolved into a word: EXIT.
The swimming pool! Paul stroked toward the sign and heard Vicki following behind. Then, his eyes adjusting to the dim illumination of a starry night sifting in through the windows, he saw her overtake him. She climbed out of the pool at a metal ladder and Paul, following, became engulfed in the torrent of water spilling from her clothes.
“We did it!” shouted Paul when he’d emerged from the pool. He raised his hands in victory. “We’ve brought Britain back!”
“Gosh,” said Vicki. “I am so glad to be back in this building, chlorine smell and all.” She laughed, then impetuously hugged Paul. Turning then, she pointed to a towel hamper. “Come on. Let’s dry off. I’m starting to shiver.” She darted to the hamper, pulled out two towels, and tossed one to Paul. As Vicki toweled herself down, clothes and all, she absently gazed out the window, upward toward the sky—then gasped.
“What’s the matter?” Paul joined her near the window and followed her gaze. “What do . . . Geez! What’s that? It looks like a comet. My god, it’s almost as bright as the moon.” He furrowed his forehead in puzzlement. “I didn’t know of any comets coming. Certainly not a comet like this.” He looked at the diffuse fiery brightness with its ghostly arced tail. “This is amazing!”
“When beggars die, there are no comets seen,” Vicki whispered, her face showing fear. “The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.”
“What?”
“Halley’s Comet,” said Vicki, still at a whisper.
“No. Can’t be. Halley’s Comet isn’t due again for years. And Halley’s hasn’t been this bright since—”
“It was very bright just before the Battle of Hastings.” Vicki broke her gaze from the comet and looked wide eyed at Paul. “1066. It was taken as a portent for William the Conqueror.”
“Wait a minute. Are you . . .” Suddenly the truth and significance of Vicki’s words registered. The capsule hadn’t pulled modern Britain back from the age of the Anglo-Saxons, but had instead hurtled them into that very Britain—the twenty-first-century kingdom in an eleventh-century world. He staggered, leaning for support against the glass wall of the Sports Centre. Vicki had her world back, but his—everything he knew: Harvard, Boston, the United States, everything but Great Britain—gone. He was an orphan. Everyone who was important to him, everyone except Vicki, lived in another Universe.
Vicki touched his arm. “I’m sure your Dr. Richardson will know what to do.”
Paul was too upset to speak and he was angry: angry at the Universe, all of them; angry at himself; angry at Dr. Richardson; and even angry at William the Conqueror. When that bastard William sets foot on England, he’s going to be in for one nasty shock. Finally, Paul found his voice. “Come on,” he said, “Let’s go find Professor Richardson.” He stormed toward the exit leading to the changing rooms and showers.
“Paul. Stop,” Vicki called after him.
Paul, his eyes watery from the pool’s chlorine, spun around.
“The middle of the night might not be the best time for a person to drop in on someone,” said Vicki, “especially if that person is dripping wet and not wearing shoes.”
“You think?” he said with a forced smile as he walked to the pool edge. He looked down at the litter of bicycles and packs on the bottom. “I’ll get our stuff.” He dived in and as he splashed his way forward he understood that his outburst and wanting to see Richardson was so that he wouldn’t have to think about the loss of his family and friends back home—as well as his loss of back home itself. And he sorely needed to believe that Richardson could undo the damage he’d wrought.
In several trips, Paul retrieved their gear and bicycles. The pannier bags dripped lakes. Paul grabbed another towel, dried off again, then sat, resting his back against the towel hamper. “I’m wiped,” he said in a throaty whisper. “I can’t even think straight anymore.”
“You live off campus, don’t you?”
Paul threw a quick glance at his dripping bicycle and sighed. “About a fifteen minute bike ride away.”
“Well, I’m in Highfield Hall, virtually just down the street.” Vicki paused. “I don’t think you should bike home. It’s late. You’re wet. You’ll catch pneumonia. Why don’t you stay over at my place?”
Paul accepted the offer with heavy thanks, and the two left the humid pool with its heavy smell of chlorine.
As they walked their bicycles out of the Sports Centre, Paul glanced stealthily from side to side. He didn’t want to encounter anyone, especially anyone he knew. He felt guilty about his part in the catastrophe, and he couldn’t shake the notion that anyone he might meet would instantly know he was guilty by observing the soggy condition of his apparel.
“The campus seems too quiet,” said Vicki, softly as if reluctant to violate the silence. “Not a person in sight.” She shivered in her wet clothes. “I wonder if something has gone very wrong and there are no people left in England.”
Paul gave an uneasy laugh. “That’s impossible.”
“Is it? I’d have thought what’s already happened to be impossible also.”
They walked in silence. As they approached the Maison Francaise, lying between them and Highfield Hall, they jumped at the sound of cheering. It came from the windows of the French dorm. As Paul and Vicki looked up toward the source of the exuberance, they saw a window thrown open and a student wave out as if he were the Pope. “On Capte a nouveau la television Francaise!” he announced loudly to the campus.
Vicki gazed up at him with wide, startled eyes.
Paul lowered his gaze to Vicki. “What did he say?”
“He said French television is broadcasting again.” She found Paul’s eyes. “How is that possible?”
“I don’t . . .” The answer occurred to him and Paul gasped. “It must be that instead of contemporary England switching to join the modern world, the modern world switched to join England.” He jerked his head up toward the student in the window. “Are you sure?” Paul shouted.
The student looked away for a few seconds, then leaned out the window again. “Yes. We’re getting satellite channels from all over Europe now.”
“Thank you!” Paul raised a hand in a V for victory.
Vicki’s eyes showed a lack of comprehension.
“It looks like,” said Paul, glancing up at the comet, “when we switched to the modern England in the eleventh century, we pulled the rest of the world we transferred from with us—but naturally enough, not the rest of the Universe.” He smiled, thinking of the implications. “Since whatever happens here on Earth can’t affect them, we’ll see all the astronomical activities of a thousand years replayed: comets, meteor showers and impacts, supernovae—and we’ll be prepared to observe them.”
“Then everything is all right now,” said Vicki.
“Yes, except for time.” Paul laughed. “Who knows what to call today’s date? The Greenwich Observatory will probably not be pleased. A very nasty time for them.”
AUGUSTA PRIMA
Karin Tidbeck
Augusta stood in the middle of the lawn with the croquet club in a two-handed grasp. She had been offered to open the game. Mnemosyne’s prized croquet balls were carved from bone, with inlaid enamel and gold. The ball at Augusta’s feet stared up at her with eyes of bright blue porcelain. An invitation to a croquet game in Mnemosyne’s court was a wonderful thing. It was something to brag about. Those who went to Mnemosyne’s games saw and were seen by the right people. Of course, they also risked utter humiliation and ridicule.
Augusta was sweating profusely. It trickled down between her breasts, eventually forming damp spots on the front of her shirt. She could feel a similar dampness spreading in the seat of her too-tight knee pants. More moisture ran down her temples, making tracks in the thick layers of powder. Her artful corkscrew curls were already wilting.
The other guests spread out across the lawn, waiting for her move. Everyone who meant something was here. Our Lady Mnemosyne sat under a lace umbrella on her usual podium. Her chamberlain Walpurgis lounged in the grass in his white surtout, watching Augusta with heavy-lidded eyes. At his side, the twin lovers Vergilia and Hermine shared a divan, embracing as usual. Today one of them was dressed in a crinoline adorned with leaves; the other wore a dress made of gray feathers. Their page, a changeling boy in garish makeup, stood behind them holding a tray of drinks.
Further away, Augusta’s sister Azalea had grown tired of waiting. She had stripped naked next to a shrubbery, methodically plucking leaves off its branches. Everyone except Azalea were watching Augusta. The only sound was that of tearing leaves.
Augusta took a deep breath, raised her club and swung it with a grunt. The ball flew in a high arc, landing with a crunch in the face of the twins’ page who dropped his tray and doubled over. The garden burst into cheers and applause. Mnemosyne smiled and nodded from her podium. Augusta had passed the test.
The game thus opened, the other guests threw themselves into play. In a series of magnificent hits, Walpurgis knocked out two pages who were carried off with crushed eyebrows, broken teeth and bleeding noses. The twins were in unusually bad shape, mostly hitting balls instead of pages. Augusta played very carefully, mostly focusing on not getting hit. There were a few breaks for cake, games and flogging a servant. Finally Hermine and Vergilia, one hand each on the club, hit Augusta’s ball and sent it into the woods beyond the gardens. The hit was considered so stylish that Augusta was sent out of the game. She wandered in among the trees to find her ball.
Under one of the dog-rose bushes lay a human corpse: a man in a grey woolen suit. They sometimes wandered into the woods by mistake. This one had come unusually far. It was difficult to tell what had killed him. He had begun to putrefy; the swollen belly had burst his waistcoat open. A gold chain trailed from one of the pockets. Augusta bent forward, gingerly grasped the chain and pulled it. A shiny locket emerged on the end of the chain, engraved with flowers. Augusta swung the locket up in the air and let it land in her palm. The touch sent a little chill along her arm, and for a moment she felt faint. She wrapped the locket in a handkerchief, put it in a pocket, and returned to the croquet green to announce that there was a new and interesting corpse.
Augusta returned to her rooms, a little medal pinned to her chest as thanks for her find. No one had noticed her taking the metal thing for herself. She shooed out her page and sat down on the bed to examine the thing further.
It seemed to be made of gold, engraved on both sides with flowery strands. It was heavy and cold in her palm. The vertigo gradually subsided, but the chills remained like an icy stream going from her hand to her neck. The chain attached to the locket by a little knob on the side. Another, almost invisible button sat across from it. She pressed it, and the locket sprung open to reveal a white disc painted with small lines. Three thin rods were attached to the centre. One of them moved around the disc in twitching movements, making a ticking noise like a mouse’s heart.
It was a machine. Augusta had seen things like it a few times, among the belongings of houses or humans who had been claimed by the gardens. They had always been broken, though. Mechanical things usually fell apart as soon as they came into the gardens’ domain. It was a mystery how this thing could still be in one piece and working.
The chills had become an almost pleasant sensation. Augusta watched the rod chasing around the disc until she fell asleep.
She woke up in the same position as she’d fallen asleep in, on her side with the little machine in her hand. It was still now. Augusta frowned and called on her page. There were a handful of pages in the family, most of them nameless changelings raised in servitude. For various reasons there were only two of them that could carry a conversation, should one be so inclined. Augusta’s page wasn’t one of them.
