In Times Like These Boxed Set

by Nathan Van Coops

  “We can just get more of your blood later, Ben.” Ambrose finally seems to be catching on. “Even if you manage to smash those vials, we’ll still have you. I promise we have syringes aplenty in this place. Getting another sample from you won’t be a struggle.”

  My hand is shaking as I inch it toward my chronometer. How is this my only option? Is it going to hurt? I try hard to keep the fear out of my voice. Defiance is better.

  “I know how you prioritize keeping the timeline pure, Declan. You won’t go to the past to get another sample and risk your precious solitaire. You’ll have to find me in the future.”

  Ambrose tilts his head and chuckles, and his mirth draws a little nervous laughter from his companions as well, but he looks concerned, as if puzzling out whether I could be holding some card he isn’t aware of. I glance at the wall and see the Zealot watching me intently. He crouches and whispers something to the little girl.

  “Benjamin, just how hard of a search do you think that will be?” He gestures toward my invisible prison. “Look where you are. You have nowhere to go.”

  I get a good grip on my chronometer with my fingertips.

  “Then I guess that’s where you’ll need to look.”

  I spin the dial a final time. I don’t need to see where it lands. There is no destination. I take a last breath and think of home. Then I press the pin.

  32

  “Time travel can’t solve all of your problems. That girl who broke your heart in sixth grade? She could do it again. She probably would, too. Don’t dwell on your losses and wonder what if: look to the future and wonder what’s next.”–Journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 2055

  I thought I was mentally prepared for anything. Aliens. Zombies. Killer robots. I didn’t count on what I’m seeing now. One thing is certain, my badass gun that can blast holes in solid walls will do me no good here. I lower it slowly to my side and face my next confounding obstacle; a dozen beautiful women holding pints of beer.

  “Benjamin Travers?” The voice cuts through the ambient murmurs and jazz music. Both guests and the female welcome committee part down the center of the room to reveal a man in a tailored gray suit. “Well aren’t you the surprise.”

  I’m almost sure I’ve never seen the man before, but I suddenly doubt myself. Do I know him? As the man takes a step forward, I get a glimpse of the people behind him. Traus Gillian is beside the Zealot from my apartment. Pia Chopra, the Indian woman from the race committee, is at his elbow.

  Get in. EMP the planet, get out.

  A man with a mustache loses his stuffed shrimp as I plow through him. Two of the women with the beers shriek as the pints tumble from their hands and shatter on the floor. I almost collide with Horacio but veer left through an elderly couple that has the misfortune of being in my path. Arms reach out for the old woman as I bowl her over.

  I’m into the hallway now and sprinting. I crash through a pair of double doors and find myself in a lobby I recognize. The fish tank on the wall is bubbling benignly and the receptionist rises from the desk at my sudden appearance. She starts to speak, but I don’t give her a chance. I shove through the glass doors into late morning sun and spin around when I reach the sidewalk. The sign on the building hasn’t changed. Saint Petersburg Temporal Studies Society.

  I run for the street, scanning for a safe jump location. Get in, EMP the planet, get out. Three men come rushing out the glass doors after me. I don’t know them and I don’t want to. I jump onto the hood of the nearest parked car, spinning my chronometer as I go. One of the men is reaching into his jacket. I don’t care what he has. He’s too late. I press my chronometer hand to the roof of the car and blink.

  I’ve changed locations and arrived on top of the car the previous night. I scan the neighborhood for another safe place to make a jump. The backyards of houses appear to be the most secluded. I’m about to climb off the car when I hear the voice. “Don’t run, Ben. We need to talk.” My hand is back to my chronometer instantly, but I turn around. The Zealot from my apartment is standing in the middle of the street with his hands raised. The little girl from the video is with him. Was it Ellen? Elenore? I crouch low and touch the roof of the car, ready to flee. “I’m not trying to stop you this time,” he says.

  I study the man, and as he steps farther into the glow of the streetlight, I realize he’s wearing my messenger bag and leather jacket. I glance at my chest and double-check that I still have mine. Why does he have the same bag? Is he trying to copy my style now?

  “We need to help each other, Ben.”

  “Since when have you ever been interested in helping me? You’ve only gotten me into messes and harassed me.”

  “I’ll help you right now. You were just thinking of climbing the fence into that backyard.” He points to the house across the street. “From there you’ll run down the alley to an RV and make another jump, after which you are going to be intercepted and tased because you forgot to get rid of the alien’s race bracelet in your pocket. It’s there now.”

  I mentally curse myself and know he’s right. Is this some ploy to get me to take my hand off my chronometer? I watch him carefully as I pull the bracelet out of my pocket.

  The Zealot continues to look me in the eye. “Would I have told you that if I wasn’t trying to help?”

  “Why are you helping me? What do you want?” I toss the bracelet away.

  “We need to help each other. You need to avoid what’s coming, and I need a way out of here.” He lowers a hand to the satchel.

  “Hey, watch it!” My hand goes back to the pin of my chronometer.

  He pauses. “You know what’s in this bag, Ben, because it’s the same thing as what’s in yours.”

  “Says you.”

  “Inside this bag you have a degravitizer, a dynamo-powered pulse cannon, and a canister-type redundant wave emitter. You also have a pen, a wrapper from a granola bar, and an autographed baseball from Cal Ripken Junior.”

  “You’re a good guesser.”

  “You don’t have to guess what you know. I’m from your future, Ben, and the only chance you have of making it out of this place alive. It just so happens you’re my only chance, too. Shall we agree to a truce?”

  The child at his side is staring at me.

  “What’s with the girl?”

  “She’s with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Her father entrusted her to me. He wanted her to have a chance at this new world order they’re creating, so he sent her here in trade for agreeing to dispense their virus.”

  “What virus?”

  “The virus that Declan Ambrose and company came here to celebrate. They’re going to vaccinate themselves against it and release it on the rest of the time traveler population.”

  “Why would you be telling me this? Isn’t that what your religious order is all about? Wiping out time travelers?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve changed my mind. Elenora’s father may think this new world will be a safe place for his daughter, but I don’t. She may be his daughter, but she also happens to be my niece, and if her mother were alive to see what I’ve seen of this new world, she wouldn’t want Elenora here, either. I’m getting her out. But I need your help.”

  “Why should I help you? You’re the one who forced me into this.”

  “I think you’ll help me for two reasons. One is that I just saved your life. You may not know it, but I have. The second reason you’ll help is because it’s in your nature. You’re the type who does that sort of thing.”

  “What makes you think you know me?”

  “Because I watched you die.”

  I hesitate, finger ready on the pin of my chronometer, considering my enemy. The girl beside him is wearing a blue shift dress. It’s simple and looks almost Amish. It makes me wonder if the Zealots have something against modern clothing. At least it’s not black.

  The little girl is holding onto the back of her uncle’s jacket. My jacket. It’s obvious she’s scared. Whether it’s of
me or something else, I can’t really tell, but the situation is clearly not being faked.

  “If I were willing to help you, what would you want?”

  The Zealot reaches slowly toward the satchel. He gently lifts the flap and extracts the baseball. “I’m guessing this is an anchor that will get you out of this place, and I’m guessing there are a whole lot of people waiting for you on the other side who might not be happy to see a member of The Order.”

  “Your guessing streak continues.”

  “You can tell them not to kill me.”

  “You want to use my anchor?”

  “Ambrose made everyone dispose of their anchors from other times. This is the only one left. We’ll agree on a time, and I’ll come through right after you, giving you enough time to tell them I’m not a threat.”

  “What do I get out of this?”

  “Like I said, you get to not be dead, and I’ll do half your job for you.”

  “Half of what job?”

  The Zealot reaches back into the bag and trades the baseball for the EMP canister. “You plan to use this here, but you have a problem. Since I just came back in time to save you, I violated all of Ambrose’s protocols and created a new timestream. Now we have double the targets. Two Ambroses, two crowds of drunk groupies. Two of just about everybody except you. Like I said, you’re dead. Luckily we now have two of these as well. I’ll rig this emitter to blow in this new timeline just after I depart, which will shut them down and solve your duplicate problem here. But you’ll need to go back to the future I just left and do the same thing there.”

  “Where would I be going?”

  “It was chaos after your death. I took Elenora back ten minutes beforehand and made the jump from an observation area above the lab. I can send you back there. You just need to get out before I show up with Elenora the first time.

  “This is a confusing plan.” I jump down from the top of the car and take a few steps toward him.

  “It won’t be. Just get back, avoid interrupting me from coming back to save you, and set off that device somewhere effective.” He checks a wristwatch. “If we’re going to do this we need to get a move on. We’ve been lingering here longer than you did before, and there’s no telling what the other me from here will do. I don’t want him to catch you. Have we got a deal?”

  I think about the scenario he’s just described. Part of me wants to dismiss it, but I can’t argue with his logic. If I’m really dead in a parallel future, I don’t have much choice. I look at the little girl cowering behind his back and stoop to speak to her. “I’m Ben.” She shrinks away.

  “This has all been a lot for her.”

  I straighten up. “Understandable.”

  The Zealot reaches into the satchel again and hands me an anchor. It’s a stapler. There is a slip of paper with it containing jump coordinates. “That’s the time I left. You’ll have a few minutes after that until I show up with Elenora. Get out of the building fast. I plan to set off this device somewhere high up. You should do the same in your timestream. I’ll expect to see you after, and without your friends shooting me.”

  “If I make it, it’s a deal.”

  “Very good.” He waits while I set my chronometer and degravitize the stapler. I set it on the hood of the parked car next to me to get the height right. After I get my settings correct, I hesitate, then look back to him.

  “How did I die? The first time.”

  “You sacrificed yourself to keep Ambrose from using his virus on your friends. Deliberately sent yourself to the Neverwhere. It was stupid, but it was certainly effective. Now we just need to slam the door on them. If the engineers behind your pulse emitter are worth their salt, this will destroy the tech Ambrose brought with him. I’m not exporting their virus for them anymore, so they’ll be on their own with no way to disperse it. You’ll have your wish.”

  “I don’t even know your name. Is that a Zealot thing?”

  “In The Order, we never tell our names to those we find undeserving of knowing them.”

  “I see.”

  He holds out his hand. “My name is Lazarus Vane.”

  I take his offered hand. “Lazarus. Shouldn’t you be the one coming back from the dead?”

  “Who says I haven’t? Good luck, Benjamin Travers.”

  I feel like I should have more to say to him, but I keep it simple. “Thank you.” I double-check my settings, then pause. “Hey. If for some reason this plan of yours doesn’t work and I die again, I need you to tell Mym that I love her.”

  “Who’s Mym?”

  “I imagine she’ll be the one who’s the most upset when you tell them I’m dead.”

  “If you’re not there, they’re going to kill me. The last words out of my mouth will not be telling some bawling girl that you love her. I’m not a goddamn Hallmark card. If you’ve got shit to say to people, suck it up and tell them yourself.”

  I study his dark eyes. “You’re still an asshole, you know that?”

  Lazarus cracks the first hint of a smile. I press the pin and blink.

  <><><>

  It’s an ugly office. Durable brown carpet and faux wood paneling is the backdrop for a few sailboat paintings that are dated even for 1996. The biggest feature of the office is a trio of windows that don’t look outside but rather down into a laboratory space. I step forward to have a look and find the lab occupied by the same group of dressed up people I ditched earlier. The man who knew my name is standing front and center. He’s taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. That must be Ambrose.

  I’m about to turn for the exit when I see myself. I’m suspended in space a few feet off the floor behind Ambrose. Viznir is there, too, but he isn’t moving. When I look closer I see the dark red stain on his chest. Oh God. Did they kill Viznir? Do they shoot me, too?

  I know I should run. I need to get out and detonate the EMP, but I’m riveted by the scene below me. How do I die? I’m not sure if the glass is one way or both, so I shift to the side of the windows and peek around the corner of the frame. I spot Lazarus and Elenora near the wall. She has a glass of green liquid in her hand. Everyone does, actually. Ambrose is handing out the last few from trays borne by attractive serving girls. What are they up to? My eyes find my other self again and I’m surprised to see him stuffing vials of something down his pants. What the hell?

  Someone shouts and Ambrose turns. He’s addressing the other me, but I can’t make out the words. Pia Chopra is involved now, too, and Traus Gillian is edging his way through the crowd to join Ambrose. The other me kicks over a stainless steel tray and definitely has the attention of the entire room. I watch in fascination as Ambrose takes another step closer. I can’t see his face, but I know he’s speaking. The other me reaches for his chronometer. He’s speaking, too, then suddenly he’s gone.

  I don’t need to hear in order to recognize the shock from the crowd. One woman drops her champagne glass and it shatters on the floor. Ambrose is staring transfixed at the space the other me has vacated. Lazarus and Elenora are already moving for the exit. I need to go. I take one last look at the spot where the other me disappeared, and that’s when I notice him. Traus Gillian has turned around and is staring right at me. Shit. I bolt for the door.

  I’ve never been in the upper story of this building before but I find the stairs immediately. I plummet down them into a hallway that crosses the building laterally. The voices of the crowd are spilling into the hall around the corner. I sprint the other way and crash out a fire exit, triggering some sort of buzzer in the process. A chain link fence surrounds the parking lot about sixty yards from the edge of the building. I make it there faster than any of my high school track times. I’m up and over without pausing to look back. I need somewhere high up.

  The Temporal Studies building is in a residential neighborhood, so my flight involves dashing through the side yards and alleyways of single story bungalows.

  It’s three blocks till I reach a main street. I’m winded and sweating
when I stop at a corner. I need a ride. St. Petersburg is no Manhattan where taxis are a dime a dozen, but I keep my eyes open for one anyway as I jog south on Ninth Street. There is a droning noise above me, and I look up to spot a single engine airplane descending toward downtown. Get somewhere high. I’m shouted at by a pair of rollerbladers in neon who streak past me on the sidewalk. I check for any more potential hazards behind me and spot a taxi. I flag the driver down, elated to see the back seat unoccupied. The driver is a forty-something black man in a tracksuit who has the windows rolled down. I lean into the passenger side. “Hey, can you make it to the municipal airport downtown in fifteen minutes?”

  “Albert Whitted Airport?”

  “Yeah the one by the college.”

  “I could make it in ten.”

  “You’re positive? This is important.”

  He swells a little. “I’m telling you, it’s not a problem.”

  “Okay, your fare is going to be in the parking lot of the airport in fifteen minutes.”

  The man’s eyebrows furrow. “Which lot?”

  “Where you go to rent an airplane.”

  “You’ll want the flight school.”

  “That’s the one, then. This part’s important. You need to make sure you park in a spot that has nothing around it, okay?”

  “This fare is picky about where I park?”

  “Just needs a little space around the car, can you do that?”

  “Sure I can—”

  “Great. See you there.” I step into the driver’s blind spot while dialing my chronometer and use the back corner of the cab as my anchor. I blink and I’m in the parking lot of the airport with the cab idling in front of me. I dash past the front of the cab and head for the flight school. “Great job, man!”