Here and Now and Then

by Mike Chen

  Direct contact was the safest, most stable way to help her. At worst, she’d consider it a cruel prank and nothing would change. At best, she might actually believe him.

  Kin’s cursor hovered on the webmail screen with his old account. If it didn’t work, he supposed he’d know soon. He’d either be lectured or fired or perhaps worse.

  He pondered this threshold when something jolted him out of his stupor. Some parts of the era returned with ease, yet others, like the communicators everyone wore, still seemed foreign. A light thump came from the small wristband on his arm, repeating at regular intervals. He reminded himself that he had to flick his wrist to activate it, then said “Caller.” A disembodied voice told him directly in his ear that it was Penny on the line.

  The clock showed that it was approaching four o’clock. Even when he was doing desk work, things seemed to time-jump—wasn’t it just noon? Or did his afternoon of ignoring his duties to hack cause the minutes to feel like seconds? “Answer,” he said, and the wristband broadcast a tiny beep that rattled the bones in his ears enough so that only he heard it. “Hi, Penny.”

  “Hiya. How’s your day going?”

  “Oh, you know.” Kin leaned back in his chair, three tiered holo windows showing various peeks into twenty-one-A before him. “Business as usual.”

  “Right. Well, I wanted to see when you’d be coming home. I’ve been toying with a new recipe. If it’s ‘unique’ enough, maybe this is the one to showcase in the business plan for the bank. Come home in time and I can give you another lesson.”

  “If it sucks, I can always make tacos,” Kin said, the words blurting out before he realized that that was the running joke with Heather, not Penny. In fact, it probably came off as a complete jerk response to Penny. He made a mental note to not confuse inside jokes with significant others. “Sorry, that came out wrong. Poor attempt at humor.”

  “Tacos? Did you want Mexican soon? I can do that—”

  “No, no,” he spit out before she picked up on the fact that he said he’d make them. “Really, I’m just kidding. Stupid joke. Your idea sounds great.” Kin glanced again at the floating holo screens, and the enormity of the past few days hit him with a sudden fatigue that melted over everything. An evening of cooking and dining with Penny did sound great, and maybe even necessary before he dived into saving Miranda from herself. “I’ll leave here in about an hour. How about we eat a little after that?”

  “Lemme see...” The sound of beeps and boops came through, probably from Penny checking her recipe and the fridge inventory. “Okay. Yeah. Around sixish.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you in a few.”

  “Okay. Don’t work too hard. I love you.”

  Penny still said “I love you” like nothing had happened. “Love you, too,” he bit out, and he heard the offline beep signaling Penny’s disconnection and his cue to sigh.

  Kin told himself to focus on the remaining hour of work, not uncomfortable “I love you” statements, not incurable cancers from the early twenty-first century and especially not the message that might change his daughter’s life.

  The beauty of time travel was that those types of things could wait until tomorrow.

  His finger swiped his data list to move on to the next to-do item, yet his mind kept veering back to the webmail screen.

  It was right there waiting for him. He could give it a test run or at least draft the email. A few minutes of that, and then he’d go home to Penny and give his mind a break.

  He should at least start.

  The DTP’s date cycled through the days, months, and years until it showed the day after Heather died. That seemed to be the most appropriate time. Any earlier would rob Miranda of her final moments with her mother. Any later would be too late.

  He’d listed and outlined, created and deleted drafts, kicked himself for getting too far ahead, then kicked himself for not planning it out enough. It took repeated stops and starts to get even the first few sentences out.

  From: Kin Stewart (chefkstew@messagemail.com)

  To: Miranda Stewart (mirawho@messagemail.com)

  Subject: I’m here for you

  First off, I am so incredibly sorry about what has happened to Mom and that you are suffering alone. I know it’s been months since you last saw me but I didn’t just leave you, I promise. I am back with my old special forces unit handling something top secret. Technically, I’m not supposed to be revealing this to anyone, but you’re too important and you’ve been through too much. I need you to know that I’m still here for you. You are not alone.

  I want to say more except I want to make sure that you believe me first. Two conditions: first, you can’t tell anyone that I’ve contacted you. If my unit somehow detects our correspondence, then they’ll throw me in the brig or worse. Second, even if you don’t believe me, please still abide by #1. The danger is no lie. Just don’t respond, act like nothing ever happened.

  You’ll need proof, I know. Here it is. The last meal I cooked for you was lasagna with quinoa. I told you about it right before you went to Tanya’s to work on your programming project. And that night, you and Mom argued about Star Trek. I hope this counts.

  Even if you don’t believe me, I hope you’ll listen to this one thing: I was too stubborn to get help for my issues these last few months. It affected you and Mom and I’m sorry about that. This is a weird and difficult time for you, so find some support, no matter what it is. It’s okay to let people in.

  Love, Dad

  The cursor hovered over the save button. It waited for him, one simple action that would release his thoughts so he could focus on Penny for a night.

  But then he moved it over to the send button, the impulse to do so pulling like history’s strongest magnet. His daughter’s fate rested in seemingly a single click, a mere flick of the finger. A thought crept in, an insidious doubt that he’d never considered: even if Miranda believed him, would she accept this version of their relationship—a relationship that came with a history of his own mistakes?

  He’d come too far to let that stop him now. Though he’d told himself he was only drafting—not sending—the message, his teeth dug into his bottom lip hard enough that the metallic taste of blood caught him by surprise, and he told himself to do it already.

  He clicked.

  A confirmation message appeared and disappeared, and he immediately reloaded his in-box to the next day.

  Nothing.

  Kin refreshed the DTP for the day after. Still nothing. And again and again, successive weeks forward until he’d moved a year out.

  Still nothing.

  Did TCB block the activity? Maybe the script interfered with sending data? Maybe the DTP didn’t allow for data upload?

  But he’d tested it. And if TCB detected him, Security would be here by now. The only remaining option was the most logical one.

  Miranda had refused to reply.

  The reason why, though, was unclear. Disbelief. Anger. Hurt. Fear. Maybe all of the above. Maybe it didn’t matter. Kin reloaded the Prison Voices article, reading it and rereading it until he was certain that nothing had yet changed. Time hadn’t rippled forward because Miranda still spiraled downward.

  Kin targeted the DTP for the day after the first email and began typing.

  From: Kin Stewart (chefkstew@messagemail.com)

  To: Miranda Stewart (mirawho@messagemail.com)

  Subject: I’m going to keep trying

  I can tell that you don’t believe me. But I’m going to keep trying. I’ll send you a message every day with a memory only I could know. If you want me to stop, just say so and I’ll stop. But until then, I need to prove to you that it’s me. I need you to know that I really am here, especially with Mom gone.

  The first memory: when you were three, we got you your first tricycle. But when we put you on it, you refused to stay on the sea
t. Instead, you stood next to it and pulled it by the handlebars in a big circle in the driveway.

  The hesitation from moments ago failed to materialize. Instead, Kin hit Send with a purpose, and clicked the refresh cycle with a methodical determination that matched any field mission or recipe. No response from Miranda. No difference in the journal.

  No change.

  Kin loaded up the next day and began typing his next memory.

  Twenty-six memories were sent Miranda’s way while Kin sat at his desk. Each was a simple passing of information that took only minutes to compose, a few sentences detailing specific memories from Kin’s life in the past before he checked for responses and changes to the Prison Voices site.

  On the twenty-seventh try, a response finally arrived.

  From: Miranda Stewart (mirawho@messagemail.com)

  To: Kin Stewart (chefkstew@messagemail.com)

  Subject: RE: Memory 27

  “I’m sorry to leave you just a note but I have to go away for a long time, maybe forever. I love you very much and I hope you both have long, wonderful lives.”

  If this really is you, then tell me when you left that note. Actually, I don’t care. I just want you to read that so you know how it feels to get it.

  The joy of receiving a response disintegrated quickly with the sheer punch of Miranda’s words. That note didn’t come from him; it was the “clean handoff” Markus mentioned. He considered all the different ways he might apologize or explain away the situation, to mend the emotional laceration caused by the TCB’s Logistics department. He sat, gnawing on his knuckles while whittling down his options.

  In the end, he couldn’t tell her the truth. But he could still be honest, then leave the rest to her. And if he was going to fail at this, being honest was the best way to go out.

  From: Kin Stewart (chefkstew@messagemail.com)

  To: Miranda Stewart (mirawho@messagemail.com)

  Subject: RE: Memory 27

  I can’t reveal the whole circumstances behind that note, but just know that every word of it is real and I’m sorry that was the last you heard from me. I can’t change what happened and I can’t bring Mom back, no matter how much I want to. All I can do is be here for you now.

  I won’t push any further. But I’ll keep checking this email if you need an ear. And I love you very much.

  Much to Kin’s surprise, a response arrived nearly immediately.

  From: Miranda Stewart (mirawho@messagemail.com)

  To: Kin Stewart (chefkstew@messagemail.com)

  Subject: RE: Memory 27

  I don’t know if it’s really you or not but I don’t really care right now. I miss you. I miss Mom. And everything hurts.

  The email tore at him, every single character in the short message carrying the sorrow and burden of an entire family. But it also bore something else, something that cancer and the distance of a century couldn’t take away.

  She’d reached out to him. The tiny electrical signals whizzing in and out of time carried more than just text. They brought a lifeline to his daughter, no matter how thin the strand.

  Kin looked at the time stamp of the email, and it dawned on him that this was as close to real time as possible. The conundrum of emailing with someone who was, at present, dead and buried messed with his head, and the TCB medical staff had warned him that the occasional pressure headache may still surface, particularly when thinking about his old life. That didn’t happen now, perhaps because this wasn’t a memory. This was a live interaction.

  He didn’t dare check her future. Not yet. Too many variables were at play now that they were communicating, and Kin needed to help her stabilize before looking again to see if anything had changed. The gears still turned on her possible outcome, the chaos still churning across time. Simply talking to his daughter was now the most important mission he’d ever taken on.

  The next few hours sped by. Six months of Miranda’s life unfolding email by email over thirty messages. She started off hesitant, revealing only tidbits of her life, such as how Heather’s mother had moved up from San Diego to stay with her or how she slept with Bamford on Heather’s side of the bed every night for a month until the dog stopped whimpering at night—or how she finally took her dad’s advice and spoke to a grief counselor for teens.

  Around the third month, she even started mentioning normal teenage life again. Classes, friends, projects; the sorrow remained but no longer controlled her. She completed her school semester, finished junior varsity soccer season, came in at the top of her programming class, and even went to her first school dance.

  In the middle of it all, she turned fifteen. Her birthday came and went, and all Kin could do was write her a message. Over the course of that afternoon, he experienced the complete range of parenthood emotions, so much so that when his wristband vibrated with calls, he didn’t even notice until the fourth time the present tried to pull him out of the past.

  As his forearm pulsed, Kin leaned back. The curve of his neck ached, and a stinging burn attacked his hips, and a quick look around told him why. Day had turned to dusk, and the screen’s clock showed that four hours had passed since he last talked to Penny. “Penny. Hi.”

  “Kin, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for ages.”

  “Right. Right. I’m sorry. Work went haywire, and I kind of...”

  Penny sighed, a subtle deflation of disappointment that mimicked her mother’s silent indignation. Not that he’d ever tell her that she did anything like her mother.

  “I should have called,” he said, straightening up. “I should have taken one minute to step away from stuff and let you know I’d be late. I’m really sorry.”

  Another short exhale came over the line, this time sounding like it returned to neutral rather than bearing the weight of frustration. “I’m the one who should apologize,” she said. “Your doctor warned me about short-term memory loss for a bit. I’ll choose to believe it’s that and not that you’ve suddenly lost your interest in cooking.” She let out a quick laugh, and he imagined her shaking her head, her brown hair swishing back and forth.

  Something rang familiar about her reaction. Not her words, but maybe her tone, the quick way she dismissed the conflict and returned to status quo. More memories arrived, not just their own fights but her battles with her family. They all ended with her shrugging it off, like she was programmed to resolve things the same way Kin programmed code to erase his temporal-digital footprint.

  How easy it was for humans to fall back into their patterns, wherever or whenever they were. Except, apparently, being in mad, passionate love. That part wasn’t quite as simple.

  Kin’s usual response to Penny’s rug-sweeping was a grunt of acknowledgment, a way to reset things. But right before it came out, a different option appeared, one that may have been impossible before life in 1996—Heather, Miranda, and everything in between—changed him.

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.” Kin nodded. The gesture may have been invisible to Penny, though maybe the affirmation wasn’t solely for her sake. “I’m heading out right now. We can still have a good night,” he said, “I promise.”

  They said their goodbyes, and Kin closed out the holo window for webmail, though he remained seated for just one more task. His hand trembled as he punched in the exact DTP search specifics for Miranda’s Prison Voices Journal essay. The results’ status bar loaded at the bottom of the screen, inching from left to right, fractions of a second stretching into the formless anxiety of waiting while the algorithm searched 2030 for any evidence of Miranda in jail.

  No results found.

  Everything released, from the muscles in Kin’s shoulders to the air he’d been holding in to the fears that clouded his thoughts. Seconds later—and for the first time since returning to 2142—he let tears flow. They might have been for the daughter he’d just saved, or the wife he�
�d just lost, or the fiancée who remained oblivious to the war inside him.

  Or maybe for all of them and none of them; simply because he needed to.

  He stopped asking why. All he knew was that he didn’t care if anyone at the office saw him this time. For once, his guard dropped, consequences be damned.

  CHAPTER 13

  The scene created a perfect opportunity, particularly the angle behind him—no evidence of skycars in the distance or subatmospheric buildings reaching beyond the naked eye. Only a field with soccer players, each dressed in a way that hadn’t changed much over the past century or so.

  It was too bad that this was all he could capture for Miranda. Not the way his restored knees propelled him down the field, not the way his mind visualized three shooting options and two passing lanes on the final play, not the way he propelled a ball several inches above the diving goalie’s hands.

  An empty field would have to suffice.

  Kin reached into his bag for another time traveler: his now-archaic smartphone. His fingers located the power button near the top and pressed down, triggering a small glow from within the bag.

  As the phone booted up, Kin untied his cleats. One quick shake shed all the tacked-on dirt and grass—the only real difference between those shoes and the ones Miranda wore. He grabbed the phone, put it in camera mode, and held it at arm’s length before taking a picture of himself and the field behind him.

  “I knew it!” Markus called out, jogging toward him. “I knew you still had it!”

  Kin tossed the phone into his bag before Markus could catch him. Except it didn’t quite go inside; it landed right to the side of the opening, the camera’s lens flat against the bag, making the viewscreen pitch-black. “Oh, hey, Markus. Good game.”

  “Don’t try to downplay this—”

  “It’s not what you think.” Kin’s breath turned into quick, short inhales, and tension wound his shoulders into tight knots. “I can explain.”