The Curiosity Killers

by K W Taylor

  “You’ve time traveled yourself, then?”

  “Ironically, no,” he said. “But I still have proof.” He tapped the binder. “Keep reading, agent. And don’t worry about the locked doors. It’s just for security. We’ll let you leave whenever you want. If you want.” He shrugged. “It’s all up to you. Until you sign on the dotted line, this is all theoretical.”

  Violet moved a hand closer to the holster resting under her skirt, strapped to her right leg. “I should warn you, sir, I’m a federal agent of the New British Empire. I’m armed and will take offensive action if threatened.”

  Ben held up his hands. “No need for that, ma’am. I’ve seen too many guns today. Just hang out here for a while. Let’s talk after you’ve read the manual.” He wandered out.

  The door locked behind him.

  ~

  After he was sure the agent wasn’t going to make a break for it, Ben took a winding metal staircase down to the sub-basement that Vere used as his lab. “Eddy, you got a fix on him yet?” he called.

  Vere gnawed on a messy-looking sandwich. He looked up from under veils of wrinkled eyelids and nodded to Ben. With a sideways nod, the doctor gestured to one of his computer stations, an ancient cobbling-together of huge, monochrome CRT monitors connected to sleek, steel-encased servers. The entire mess was controlled by the disembodied keyboards of pre-war manual typewriters and mid-century adding machines jury-rigged with coiled landline telephone wires.

  Vere tore the sandwich from his mouth. “He thought he was being clever, going down to the sewers,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “Poor lad didn’t know our LoJacks are a bit more sophisticated than most.”

  Ben cringed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I take it you’ve already done it without checking with me, called in for a removal?” His voice quavered on the last word.

  Vere finished chewing his bit of sandwich and shuffled forward. “Boy, you’ve got no head for this part of the business,” he said, laying a hand on Ben’s shoulder.

  “It’s a stupid folk tale,” Ben said. “We can’t let a guy go who just wants to keep that memory? He wanted to know, Eddy. He said when he hired us that he’s a historian. I can relate. Why else do you think I like hearing their stories when they come back? I like knowing. I get why he did this.”

  Vere bowed his head. “It’s not just the green children he knows about. It’s you and me and Miss Moto, our work here, our location, everything.” He swept a hand around the room. “He’s been in the lab, Benoy. Not just the upper room, not just the public things we use for recruitment and advertising, the innocent things. I can’t have the tech getting out. The consequences of unregulated use of time travel? Do you understand how dangerous that is? What would happen to it?” Vere grew impatient. He slammed a fist down on a nearby counter. “My God, man, what do you think the Rénartians would do with this?”

  Ben felt a chill course through him.

  “Do you think that’s what he is?” Ben asked, his voice low and hollow.

  Vere glared at Ben. “That woman, that awful woman who had us believing her intentions were pure…she might not have been one of them geographically, but she was one of them spiritually. Emotionally. They exist among us, spies to that infernal cause of hate-mongering and such.”

  “But what would Rénertia care about a Welsh legend from the eleven hundreds?”

  “If those children weren’t Flemish, as you say, if they were from another world where technology is stronger and things like that man’s little weapon are the norm, it may not be anything more than firepower,” Vere replied. “Any advantage, no matter how small, is still an advantage. Or perhaps they just want this,” Vere continued, sweeping a hand through the lab to indicate its entire contents. “Perhaps they want to travel backward or forward in time and further strengthen their cause with money or power or…God, it could be anything. Do you want their success on your conscience?”

  Do I?

  Ben’s gaze fell upon some of Vere’s books, tattered covers on both physics and history, texts the two of them pored over time and again. He stepped toward a stack with one volume on top, a book he knew well because it was from his own teenage library.

  Civil War II, the title proclaimed, followed by The Second War Between the States in a smaller font.

  Vere’s voice called Ben out of his reverie. “We can’t let that man stay on the loose with that knowledge,” Vere said. “You have to agree, Benoy, honestly. There’s no other choice.”

  A nod. The signing of a form with Ben’s sweaty, nervous hand. And then Ben walked back upstairs with a much heavier heart.

  Kris was at his office door waiting for him. “Agent Lessep is done with her reading,” she told Ben. “And, man, she’s cute. You gonna do anything about that?”

  Ben sighed. “I can’t date a client. None of us can. You know that.”

  “Is that, like, in writing somewhere?” Kris asked. “Because you might want to—”

  “I thought it was a pretty obvious thing, but if you want to add it to the minutes of the next freaking staff meeting, we can get it in the employee manual, okay? That’s hardly the biggest thing we have to deal with today, Kris. Jesus.” Ben sighed. “Sorry. That was harsh. Yes, she’s very cute. I’m sorry. I’m just…”

  “It’s cool,” Kris said. “I’m sorry I was trying to be all lighthearted me when we got a situation going. I get it. It’s less-than-awesome that guy got out.”

  “Understatement.”

  “Yeah.” She tidied up the remains of the tea. Cups and saucers clinked together.

  Such normal noises, Ben marveled. Dishes and liquid and people with plans and people thinking about dates and silly things when…

  When I have to decide to murder someone before the day is over. Murder. Steal someone else’s actual ability to live, the one thing we each have that’s ours, that makes us special, human, real…I decided to murder this man.

  “You want me to set her up in the inner office?” Kris asked.

  When he didn’t respond, Kris moved closer to Ben. “Dude, you’re looking a little more haunted than usual. Actually, a lot paler. Like you-are-in-the-middle-of-seeing-actual-ghosts-right-this-minute haunted.”

  Ben could no longer feel his body. He was numb from head to toe, knees locked rigidly to keep him upright.

  “Tell me about the gun again, Kris.” The sound of Ben’s own voice sounded faraway and unreal. His eyes stayed averted from hers. “I need to believe it wasn’t normal technology. Tell me it was an alien gun, a gun from another planet, another time…anything. Please.” He looked at her, moisture stinging in the corner of one eye. “Tell me we’re doing the right thing.”

  There was a client not ten feet from him, sequestered behind wood and metal, learning about what they were going to do to her, and yet the last person who trusted them with his life was about to lose it.

  He wasn’t going to pull the trigger himself, but that didn’t matter; it was still his orders.

  “Wow,” Kris said, “I thought you and Eddy were always kidding about that stuff.” She lowered her voice. “You weren’t going to let him go? It really is…you’re gonna off him?”

  Ben flopped down in his chair. He looked at the desk and could still see Wheaton’s footprint on the blotter. He didn’t answer, but instead just stared at the dusty outline.

  Monday, August 9, 2100, Avon, Vermont, NBE

  Rupert Cob didn’t realize he’d read this manual six times already.

  Every few months, Cob learned—through the Jonson’s Exotic Travel training process—that he’d been mindwiped before, and then he’d recall his weekend in a small cabin in the mountains and chuckle to himself at how unreal such a bland vacation seemed in retrospect.

  Hell of a thing. What did I really do while I was away? Did I learn whether Patty Hearst was in on her kidnapping? Did I thwart some murder plot to assassinate a king in the 1500s? Or do I know where a centuries-dead pirate buried his treasure? The mind reels.

>   Cob would feel a scratching at the inside of his brain, like insects seeking exit from a glass jar. Then he’d spend a few hours in meditative pondering before offering up a mild shrug and continuing on his day.

  Now he read the manual a seventh time, receiving coffee from the efficient and beautiful Miss Moto and warnings from the sad-eyed Mister Jonson at regular intervals. Jonson himself was a bit of a downer, with his dark eyes cast to the floor and muttered warnings of things. At last the physicist, Doctor Vere, entered and led Cob downstairs.

  “You must forgive me if I seem too casual in my instructions for you,” Vere rumbled in a deep voice. “It’s just that, as you now know, you’ve been our client for so long…from our perspective, we feel as if this should all be old hat for you, lad.” Vere chuckled. It was a rusty enough sound that Cob suspected it was rare to hear the scientist express mirth.

  “Indulge me,” Cob told Vere. They’d reached the bottom of the spiral staircase and stood in a crowded laboratory. “They tell me I have a bit of a memory problem.” He barked out a boisterous laugh that in all other company never failed to be infectious, but Vere did not join him. Cob quieted and looked around.

  Buzzkill.

  “So…do I need some new threads? Things that won’t make me stick out? I don’t know the drill, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me you’ve run me through it before.”

  “That’s step one, yes,” Vere replied. “Let me see, let me see. Nineteen…when is it again you’re going? Ah, yes.” He rummaged through a sheaf of papers and nodded. “Off to wardrobe with us.” Vere canted his head toward a darkened hallway to the left of the main room and shuffled off. “Benoy left instructions on the style. He’s quite the thorough researcher. You’ll want to be completely inconspicuous, so we’ve got to outfit you with things that will work for multiple occupations. Blend in. This is not the time to express yourself, as you apparently do in your daily life.” Vere nodded with a raised eyebrow at Cob’s garish attire.

  Cob shrugged, confident in his personal sartorial choices. Spats and velvet were always appropriate these days. The velvet in particular was important, because it tended to make ladies want to touch him.

  “Location matters, too, I expect,” Cob remarked. The two men were now in a wider hallway with racks of garments on either side. The elbows of Cob’s jacket brushed against something dusty that made him stifle a sneeze. “What’s formal in Jersey might not be so formal in Paris, y’know?”

  “Indeed, indeed.” Vere produced a bag from one of the racks. “You’ve actually used this same suit before for a similar time period, so I hope you haven’t drastically changed sizes since then.”

  Cob took the bag. Black plastic covered the contents, but through the zippered hole in the top he could make out dark wool. “Feels heavy. This stuff gonna slow me down if I have to make a run for it? Is it liable to be too hot?”

  “It will be late in the year, when we send you,” Vere said. “Nearly wintertime, and decades before the seasonal designations ceased to mean much. You should be quite comfortable.”

  “Right, the first sighting…well, the bridge collapsed at Christmastime,” Cob muttered, more to himself than to Vere. “But it’s the south…”

  “It’s only too warm for that sort of clothing in the deep south. You aren’t going into Alliance states, after all,” Vere said. “Now, get changed and return to the main room. Be quick about it.”

  Vere returned to his lab, leaving Cob alone.

  Christmastime. The folks who had premonitions of the disaster reported having dreams about presents bobbing up and down in the water.

  He shut his eyes. That was the part of this trip, this mystery, he didn’t like thinking about. It wasn’t so much the bridge failure that concerned him, it was what else appeared that strange late autumn and early winter of 1966. Monster hunting was glamorous; a disaster that killed almost fifty people, not so much.

  Cob took the dark plastic off the hanger and whistled when he saw the outfit. He imagined this was where some of the myths come from. How many of these dudes in black suits were time travelers?

  He stepped out of his crimson trousers and purple jacket, keeping on his plain white dress shirt, and pulled on the replacement clothing. There was a full-length mirror in an attached dressing area, and Cob sauntered over to it as he tightened his necktie. He brushed dust out of his straight dark hair and stroked the three-day growth of scruff that filled the hollows of his cheeks.

  Might want to shave. They’ll give a lotta side-eye to someone who’s not all boring and clean-cut.

  In the pocket of the black blazer was a pair of vintage Ray Bans with perfectly opaque lenses. Cob set them on the bridge of his nose and took in the effect.

  Man in black. I am an honest-to-goodness man in black. God, this is about as far from inconspicuous as you can get.

  He exhaled a short laugh and put the shades back in the jacket pocket.

  In the lab, Vere turned dials and tapped the screens of level meters. “You ready, Mister Cob?” he asked.

  “Think I need a shave,” Cob replied.

  Vere cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “Upstairs. Benoy keeps a kit in the smaller lavatory. Miss Moto will show you.”

  Cob jogged up the winding metal staircase and almost collided with another figure. A feminine voice let out a squeak, and Cob took a step backward.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “No, my fault, my fault.”

  Cob blinked, expecting to see that he’d nearly run into Miss Moto, she of the sleek dark hair and excellent hot drink service, but it was someone else. This woman was older than the secretary, though only by a few years, and had shoulder-length platinum hair. She wore some sort of nondescript overalls, liberally streaked with oil or grease along the front, and had a rolled-up blue bandana holding her bangs away from her forehead.

  “Damn, my office clearly needs a new IT department if I can hire folks who look like you,” Cob remarked before thinking the words through.

  “Excuse me?” The woman’s pale skin turned rosy.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, sorry, I just…you, ah, you work here? I’m looking for the head. The…ah, that sounded gross. The restroom. You an employee?”

  “No, I’m a…oh! Are you a client?” The woman laughed. “We probably shouldn’t be talking. It was in the manual, wasn’t it? Or…do you…”

  “Right, yes, no. We probably shouldn’t be talking,” Cob agreed. They both laughed again, and the woman disappeared into the conference room.

  I never literally bump into chicks that hot. Wonder where she went.

  He found the bathroom on his own and shut the door. On a small shelf mounted above the sink, he spotted a mug of soap and shaving brush. A few more moments’ searching revealed a half-empty bag of disposable razors in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror.

  Cob wet the brush and placed it in the mug of soap, swirling it around until lather formed. Where would a girl like that need to wear a pair of overalls? And, damn, did she fill ’em out nice. What did she do where she would get all greasy? Based on how she was dressed, maybe she’d been polishing the landing gear of the Spruce Goose. Cob wondered if he’d ever satisfied his curiosity about Amelia Earhart, given all the jaunts he couldn’t remember. Were there times he was told a trip wasn’t a good choice? They were letting him go to West Virginia, so he must not have learned about this particular mystery already.

  Cob imagined red eyes glowing in the dark. He slid the protective plastic off the razor and shaved. Even as he watched the dusting of whiskers disappear from his face, he still imagined those eyes, the wingspan reports cited, a hulking thing stepping out in front of a car…

  I have to know.

  He rinsed off the razor and thumbed one cheek’s worth of hair onto the white porcelain below. How could someone hear a mystery without needing to know the truth, even if the truth is a bunch of bored kids putting on crazy outfits and walking around scaring people in the woods? Puzzles existe
d to be solved just like mountains existed to be climbed.

  Unclimbed mountains like Cob’s sudden, desperate need to know whether the woman wore a wedding ring or not…

  Or, hell, maybe a ring doesn’t matter. Maybe I gotta try anyway…

  Cob let the razor clatter into the sink and took a step toward the bathroom door. He imagined the conversation if he caught up to her. “Miss, I know this is crazy, but if you’d like to join me on a little adventure…I’d be happy to pay your way, and then you could get two memory erasures at once. What do you say?”

  No. Not a good idea. Not after Elizabeth.

  Wait. Elizabeth? Who?

  Everything slipped sideways and Rupert Cob crumpled to the floor.

  Tuesday, January 14, 1947, Los Angeles, California, USA

  A scream. Deafening claps of thunder. A flash of lightning—but no, not lightning, because it kept going, and it was too yellow and it was swinging. Swinging and spinning. It was a light bulb, and it wasn’t outside, it was here, in the bathroom, and the bulb was even yellower than a normal bulb because—

  Thunk!

  Metal into meat. A wet sound, of something being pulled from a sopping pile of rags. That was when the light bulb went yellow, that was when the blood splattered across the wall, the sink, the tiles, the light.

  Swinging and spinning, swirling light all around the room…no, not just a room, an apartment. Dirty as hell. Crazy patterns on the walls from the swinging light, light arcing all over the walls making Cob feel like he was on a roller coaster. The screams weren’t from joy or thrilling at the lurch of popcorn-filled stomachs leaping over hills and rushing through tunnels. The screams had been from the thing that arced through the air, glinting and dripping. And it was the one person doing the screaming.

  Elizabeth.

  The man emerged from the bathroom, a smallish half-bath not unlike this one, and he wore a smile smeared with gore, a dazzled and keen glint in his eye. “I got another bag,” he grunted at Cob. “I got another bag, and I can put you in it, too.” A loud banging came from somewhere, maybe in the hall. Was it the police?