Analog SFF, November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  But she was, clearly, fine. I'd run a lot of risks and made a fool of myself for nothing. The best thing to do now was to jump out of here before Pam saw me.

  Pam suddenly staggered, then went down limp. The door to the home she'd been passing opened and a man stepped partly out to grab her arms and pull her inside. He was wearing a different outfit, the uniform of a British regular officer I thought from the brief glimpse I'd caught, but I didn't need Jeannie's confirmation to tell me that he was the Brit I'd seen before. How he'd manage to surprise Pam when her Assistant should have warned her that he was nearby I didn't know, but that didn't matter. I was already running across those fifteen meters toward the small house into which the Brit had pulled Pam.

  I reached the door without anyone else shooting me and paused just outside. The house was small and old, built of roughly hewn planks sealed with plaster, not much more than a box maybe four meters by three meters in length and width, the edge of the roof just above my head. How close is he? I asked Jeannie, knowing she could detect the Brit's implanted equipment if he was near enough.

  I can't sense any trace of him, Jeannie assured me. At our last encounter I spotted his presence at a range of six meters.

  That house was smaller than that. He must have pulled Pam inside and run. Relieved, I barreled through the door.

  And found myself looking at the Brit standing over Pam, a dazer stun pistol in one hand pointed directly at me. “Don't move,” he ordered. “Close the door."

  I considered pointing out that I couldn't follow both orders, but decided that it wasn't worth playing games with a guy pointing a weapon at me and with Pam helpless. Nothing in the house seemed like it would be of much help. A single chair and a narrow bed against the side walls, and a Franklin stove, its open side facing me from where the black iron box sat within the old stone fireplace against the back wall, a tin pipe running straight up from it and through the roof. Why didn't you detect that he was here? I mentally yelled at Jeannie.

  It's strange to hear an Assistant sounding shocked. He's shut down his systems. His Assistant and his jump mech.

  You should've been able to spot them in standby!

  They're not in standby. They're completely shut down. I don't know of any way he could restart them in this now.

  All of this had taken perhaps two seconds. I stared at the Brit, wondering why anyone would permanently disable their ability to get back to their home now, then at his weapon. But at least that explained how he'd surprised Pam. Her Assistant wouldn't have spotted him either. Can that pistol deliver a lethal charge? I asked Jeannie as I closed the door, moving slowly and carefully.

  Insufficient data. Models sold were set to prohibit lethal charges, but were easily modified to allow a lethal nerve overload. That's why dazers were outlawed sixty years prior to our home now.

  The Brit looked way too much like someone who'd make that kind of modification, so I spoke in what I hoped was a calming voice. “I'm just here to help her. Neither of us wants anything to do with you."

  "Lies!” His face twitched but the weapon remained fixed on my midsection. “I was about to finish her off when you showed up. You want to stop me!"

  "Citizen, I don't even know what you want to do."

  "More lies. As if you didn't know about this!” The Brit's free hand pulled open his uniform coat as I realized he looked a lot bulkier than the last time I'd encountered him. The reason for that became obvious as the coat pulled open to reveal a vest loaded with lots of blocks of something that looked dangerously familiar.

  What is that stuff?

  Plastic explosive, Jeannie replied.

  "You're going to take out the Colonial militia?” I asked.

  "Of course not,” the Brit answered contemptuously. “If your little rebellion is to be crushed it must be met with overwhelming force and righteous retaliation. Boston doesn't need to be occupied, it needs to be flattened as an example to any Colonials who support rebellion.” He gestured toward the outside with his free hand. “A battle is one thing. It will arouse outrage in England, but not enough. No, that requires the belief that the Colonials murdered large numbers of our soldiers with a cowardly trick!"

  His intent suddenly came clear. “You're going to mingle with the British regulars and then detonate that vest?” No wonder he'd been willing to shut down his systems. He didn't intend going home.

  "Yes! Everyone will think the Colonials concealed some explosives in the road and detonated them without warning! Even Parliament will call for Boston to be dismantled brick by brick as an appropriate response to such a barbaric attack.” He seemed enormously pleased with himself for a man who was about to commit suicide.

  "But you're British, too. You'll be killing your own soldiers."

  "So?” He made a dismissive gesture. “They agreed to die for the crown."

  "And you're willing to do that, too?” I asked, not bothering to hide my revulsion at his attitude. “Then why isn't there a detonator wired into that vest?"

  The Brit smiled unpleasantly and pulled a detonator out of one pocket. “No sense risking an accidental premature explosion. Once I finish you off, I'll set this in place, then go to join the British soldiers on their way here."

  His hand with the stun pistol still remained steady on me, making a grab for it hopeless. But I knew he'd expect me to go for the dazer, not realizing that what I needed to get was the detonator.

  I feinted toward the Brit's gun hand, then lunged back for the hand holding out the detonator. He reacted to protect the gun, turning that side away and firing at where I should have been. As the charge tore by close enough to numb my side under my arm, I closed one hand on the detonator and swung my other fist in a low hook. I couldn't waste a blow on the Brit's torso since it was well cushioned by all that plastic explosive, but his vest didn't go too far below his belt line. My fist hit his groin as the Brit tried to line up another shot at me. He squealed and his hands went limp, the detonator coming free in my left hand as I brought up my right and slapped the dazer away.

  The Brit went to his knees and the dazer skidded into the corner. The detonator flipped up out of my grip and spun twice before I frantically caught it in midair and stepped back.

  A lightening of the sky outside vaguely seen through a single window revealed that dawn was well under way. I heard commands being shouted in a way that called to mind disciplined military forces. The British regulars, deploying into line of battle at Lexington Green.

  The Brit heard it, too. Delaying to attack Pam and then me had thrown off his schedule more than he realized, since he hadn't had his Assistant working to remind him of the time line. “Give me that detonator,” he half threatened, half pleaded as he got his feet back under him.

  "No. I don't particularly like people who are willing to murder other people on their own side in the name of some higher cause."

  The Brit's eyes flicked from side to side, seeking some advantage.

  I heard more shouts outside. It sounded like someone making demands and someone else answering, though I couldn't make out the words.

  Pam groaned and raised her head, and my eyes and attention focused on her anxiously.

  The Brit sprang. He barreled into me full force, grabbing for the detonator. I went backwards, his hand hit my wrist, and I lost my grip. The detonator flew backwards into the open front of the iron Franklin stove, hit the back wall of it, and did what detonators do when subjected to a shock like that.

  The explosion wasn't very big, but the stove magnified the sound. The Brit stumbled to a halt and stared at the stove. “What have you done?” he shrieked.

  "Saved some of your countrymen.” The explosive vest completely covered his torso, so I stuck my finger against his neck and pumped the tranq crystal into him. He stiffened, then dropped limply. Tempted as I was to let him slam full force onto the floor, I have a policy of not letting high explosives slam into things if I can help it, so I caught the Brit and lowered him to the floor, vaguely aware of
the sounds of more explosions echoing outside.

  That's when I spotted Pam again. She'd gotten to her feet against one wall, her eyes on me and her expression shocked. “What did you do?” she gasped.

  "Why is everybody asking me that?” The explosions somewhere outside were rising in crescendo. “What happened?"

  Pam looked from me to the stove. “You're hearing the Colonial militia and the British regulars exchanging fire on Lexington Green. The American Revolutionary War has started."

  No wonder she was upset. “And because of this guy you weren't able to deploy your gear to help find who fired that first shot."

  Pam gave me a look like she doubted my sanity. “Are you kidding? You haven't figured it out? You fired the first shot. You're the shooter."

  "That's ridiculous. I—” It hit me then, and I pivoted to look at the stove. The detonator had exploded inside it. The metal box had magnified the sound, much of which had vented into this room, but plenty had gone up the metal tube that formed the chimney. Metal tube. Explosion at one end. The noise on the other end would sound like a gunshot. “I don't even carry a gun and I'm the shooter."

  Pam shook her head in amazement. “No wonder no one could localize the shot to any possible location! The noise vented upward through the chimney and got deflected to all sides by the rain baffle on top! And no one could identify the weapon because it was an anachronistic detonator ‘fired’ through a chimney ‘barrel.’ But why did you do it?"

  "What do you mean why did I do it?” I demanded. “The Brit here was about to kill you. I had to stop that, which meant I had to stop him."

  "You started a war to save me?” Pam didn't seem certain how she should feel about that. “Tom, that's so very gallant. Also so very stupid, but gallant."

  "I didn't do it on purpose!"

  Pam came away from the wall, rubbing her forehead and grimacing. “So the shot that started the American Revolution was an accidental explosion caused because a time traveler here and now to document the American Revolution was trying to rescue another time traveler, who was here and now to find out who fired the shot, from a third time traveler who was here and now to change the events of the day but in the process made them happen the way they historically did. This is the sort of thing that makes people really upset with TIs, you know."

  "It's not my fault causality is circular through time,” I grumbled, retrieving the Brit's dazer. “If I caused the shot, how come nobody discovered me doing it before this?"

  "Because even though you did it you hadn't done it yet!"

  "And I wouldn't have if I hadn't been following you!"

  Pam stared at me again. “Which you wouldn't have been if I hadn't come here and now to see you."

  I was getting dizzy. “Which you wouldn't have done if we weren't going to meet in London about a hundred and thirty years from now. Which wouldn't have happened unless other people had tried to alter the outcome of a war that was decided by the future United States. I've always known how complex it all is, time filled with countless causality wheels interacting and blending and interfering, but where the hell did this one start?"

  "There isn't any beginning and there isn't any end. You know that. So did the ancients. That's why the symbol for infinity grew out of the worm Ouroboros swallowing its own tail.” Pam sighed. “But my job here is a success. I've learned where the shot came from and why."

  "But no one knew that before you came here. Why don't I tell anyone? Aside from embarrassment, I mean."

  Pam smiled. “I guess you're not in your home now to tell anyone."

  "Why wouldn't—? Oh. I guess this means I have to emigrate to your now."

  Her smile went away and her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Have to? Is that how you see it?"

  From the way Pam was looking at me, if I didn't think fast the first day of the American Revolution might see another casualty. I raised my hand to my head and feigned confusion. “Did I say something that didn't make sense? That guy hit me pretty hard, and I'm still really rattled—"

  "Your Assistant told my Assistant that you're fine. No concussion."

  Traitor, I told Jeannie. “It's probably something she can't detect. I'm sure the medical tech in your now can handle it. I'm really happy to be going there to be with you. Did I mention that?"

  "Uh huh. Sure."

  "Hey, I started a war because I love you! Doesn't that count?"

  "Next time just give me chocolate,” Pam advised. “What do we do with this guy? Send him home?"

  "We can't. He's shut down his jump mechanism."

  "Yeah, we can,” Pam announced. “Annie can transmit enough power to reactivate his power source, then his own power source can trigger his jump mech. Once Jeannie gets her upgrade in my now she'll be able to do that, too. I'll have Annie reset his jump so he comes out fifty years uptime from his home now. He'll have a real hard time explaining his presence there and trying to get back to his home now.” Pam held still for a moment, then the Brit's body popped out of existence. “What was that he was wearing?"

  "Explosive vest."

  "Ugh. One of them. He's going to get a real unpleasant reception when I sent him.” Pam looked toward the outside, alarm showing. “There's TIs all over the place out there and some of them are getting closer. Let's get the hell out of Dodge."

  "Will you be there too?” I asked.

  "Dodge City? Yeah, 1878."

  "I'll be there in 1879!"

  "Late! Just like a man. Now let's jump back to our own home nows before someone else we don't want to meet catches us here!"

  But I waited until Pam vanished, then triggered my own jump.

  * * * *

  Which is how I found myself filling out the forms for emigration uptime, accompanied by the sponsor's affidavit from Pam, and saying good-bye to everyone I knew in what would soon be my former home now. The guys I knew all told me I was nuts to be leaving my home now for a girl, and the girls I knew all cried and told me what a great guy I was. They all chipped in a little to help pay for the jump in lieu of presents for a wedding that wouldn't happen for another century.

  I didn't tell anyone I started the American Revolution by accident. That secret is safe for another century.

  Copyright (c) 2007 John G. Hemry

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  YEARNING FOR THE WHITE AVENGER by CARL FREDERICK

  * * * *

  Illustration by Nicholas Jainschigg

  * * * *

  Some things are best done in stages...

  * * * *

  "You don't like Brussels sprouts,” said the parrot.

  Conradin gazed over at the perch in surprise, and also embarrassment. For the first time, he'd been invited to dinner by his best friend, Henry, and he wanted to make a good impression.

  Henry laughed. “Mom trained her to say that.” He seemed pleased with himself. “Because of me."

  Mrs. Wolverton smiled. “It's all right, Conradin,” she said. “Most eleven-year-old boys aren't nuts about Brussels sprouts.” She threw a glance at her son. “Henry certainly isn't."

  Conradin balled a fist with the hand on his lap. “But how—"

  "I saw what you did,” said the parrot.

  "What?” Conradin felt his face flush with guilt; when Mrs. Wolverton had gone out to bring in the dessert, he'd slid a Brussels sprout back into the serving bowl. And now the parrot was telling on him.

  "You must have made a fist,” said Mrs. Wolverton. “Shadow's trained to say that when she sees someone making a fist."

  Conradin stared at her and wrinkled his nose in puzzlement.

  "It was for a crime show."

  "Oh,” said Conradin, still mystified.

  "Mom trains animals for TV.” Henry wiggled a finger at Shadow. “African Grey parrots are smart."

  "I didn't think they were that smart.” Conradin nodded over at the dog watching alertly from just outside the no-begging zone: a black and white Border collie with half-perked ears and dark brown eyes. �
�Anyway, I thought dogs were smarter than birds."

  "They are. Watch this!” Henry slid his chair back a few inches, then turned toward the dog. “Sniffles,” he said, “do you want some people food?"

  Sniffles, whining, made twitching motions. In spite of the dog's lack of speech, Conradin had no difficulty understanding him.

  "Then bring over your bowl."

  Sniffles ran out of the dining room and a few seconds later, returned with a dog bowl in his teeth. He paused at the no-begging boundary and, after Henry nodded, raced up to the table. Henry put some lamb chop scraps in the bowl and told Sniffles to eat it in the kitchen. Sniffles, with the bowl in his teeth, dashed out of the dining room.

  "Geez!” said Conradin.

  "Where is Sniffles going?” said the parrot.

  "Wow!” said Conradin. “These guys are smart as people."

  Mrs. Wolverton put down her fork. “It's body language, mostly. Dogs and birds are sharp observers. We can train them so they seem very intelligent."

  "But Sniffles and Shadow are intelligent,” said Henry, glancing at the parrot. “African Greys are Einstein parrots and some Border Collies can understand over four hundred words. They can't talk, but they're super intelligent."

  "Oh, I wouldn't go that far,” said Mrs. Wolverton. “Intelligence is a word covering many meanings. There really should be a lot of different words.” She regarded the parrot. “But whether Shadow knows what she's saying—probably not, but who knows?"

  Just then, Sniffles padded back in.

  "Good dog,” said Henry. “You can come up to the table now."

  Sniffles, tail wagging, darted up between Conradin and Henry. Conradin leaned over and patted the dog, closing his eyes when Sniffles licked his face.

  "You really like dogs,” said Mrs. Wolverton.

  "I love dogs.” Conradin chuckled. “How could you tell?"

  "Body language.” She gave a warm, inclusive smile. “Maybe you can work on your father to get you a dog."

  "I've tried. He doesn't want a dog around. Most of the time, he doesn't even want me around."

  "Oh, don't say that."