by K W Taylor
It was the newscasters who then drew Ben’s attention. One network showed a man and a woman, both of different ethnic groups, while a graphic in the top right of the screen indicated the feed originated in Missouri.
“Is that right?” Ben gaped at the screen, unable to pull his eyes away. The woman was Asian, perhaps in her early fifties, and the man, despite being white, spoke with her with what seemed congeniality and respect. “How are they allowed on the same show together if it’s coming out of the RAA?”
“The what what what?” Kris asked. She looked at the screen. “Hey, Aunt Sybil’s on. That’s awesome. I only ever get to see her on TV, living this far away.” She put the tray of instruments down. “There’s always holidays, but still, that’s only a few times a year.”
“You travel between here and there a few times a year?” Ben asked. “You? They let you?”
“Um, if you mean you and Ambrose, being my bosses and letting me have time off, yeah, they do.” Kris stared at Ben. “You’re acting super weird, man. Oh, hey, I think this lady you brought back is waking up.” She scurried off to another table.
Ben hopped off his own and followed Kris. “The lady?” There Violet was, just now coming around, too. Kris gave her an injection while she was still drowsy. “Violet, you mean?”
“Is that her name?” Kris asked.
A tall man rounded a corner.
“You brought somebody back?” he asked.
“Pop?” Violet was now awake and looked up at Michael. “What’re you doing here?”
Michael laughed. “Pop? Hoo, that’d be funny, wouldn’t it, babe?”
Ambrose came over and threaded his arm through Michael’s. “The only kids we got walk on four legs.”
“Hey, but maybe we should talk about that,” Michael said. “Lotsa kids need good homes.”
“You think ours is a good home?”
“What the hell?” Violet got down from her table. “Ben, what’s going on?”
We did it. We stopped Claudio, or rather Claudio stopped himself.
He had to be sure, though. Vere would prove it. If Claudio killed him to get the weapon in the original timeline, then his demise undid Vere’s murder.
“Guys, I’m sorry we’re acting so strange. This is…” He turned to Violet, suddenly unsure of what all this meant for her identity. Was she Violet Lessep, adopted daughter of Michael, plucky FBI agent and time traveler? Or was she Virginia Dare, the first child of English parents born on NBE soil?
No. Not NBE. This was probably still America. Probably.
“Violet,” she said, holding out her hand to the man who raised her but now didn’t seem to know her. “Violet Dare.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Michael said, taking it in his own. Instead of shaking it, though, he turned it palm down, bent low, and planted a light kiss on her knuckles.
“Must you be so dramatic?” Ambrose asked.
“I must.”
“Guys, where is Eddy? I want to ask him if we were successful.”
“You said that name before,” Kris said. She muted the TV. “Who are you talking about?”
Who am I talking about? If we changed things, who would Eddy be in this new reality?
“Our, ah, other partner. Doctor Edward Vere.” Ben turned to Violet. “You remember Eddy, don’t you?”
“Of course,” she replied. She glanced at Michael. “I remember everybody.”
It wasn’t just Vere who was missing, of course. They should’ve been coming back a trio. Ben wondered what to tell Alison.
“Violet, would you like some tea?” Ben asked. He turned to Ambrose and Michael. “I need to debrief her on—”
“I bet you—”
“This decade,” Ben said, cutting Kris off. She rolled her eyes.
“You are such a prude,” she said.
He rushed at her and enveloped her small body into a bear hug. “I’m so glad some things never change.”
“Ugh, get off me, weirdo,” Kris grumped. She wriggled out of Ben’s embrace. “Whatever. Go drink your stinky tea or something. Jesus.”
Violet followed Ben upstairs. The first floor of the building was largely unchanged, but one row of bookcases was replaced by a computer system so advanced Ben doubted he’d even be able to find the on switch. As he passed it, its screen sprang to life. “Good evening, Mister Jonson,” a crisp voice said. “How may I be of service?”
Violet drew back a step. “Whoa, what the hell is that?”
“I am the SmartWare sixty-five hundred,” the voice replied. “Are you a guest user? Please state your name. If Mister Jonson provides me with permission, I will set up an internet account for you.”
“Uh, Violet Dare.”
“Very good, Violet Dare,” the voice said. “Mister Jonson, may I set up an account for Ms. Dare?”
“Um, sure.”
“Very good, sir. Ms. Dare, what would you like to research this evening?”
Violet looked at Ben. “Wilbur Wright,” she said, her eyes never leaving his.
“Wilbur Wright, born Millville, Indiana, 1867, died Dayton, Ohio, 1912. Best known for his work with brother Orville Wright to invent practical air travel. Grew up in—”
“Thank you,” Ben said. “That’s enough.”
“Died 1912, Ben,” Violet said. “Did he die the same way he did originally? Or is that just what the official record says now?”
“I have a research question,” Ben said.
“Yes, sir?”
“The Second Civil War of the United States. Started in the 2050s.”
The computer was silent for a long moment. “I have no record of that,” it finally said. “Would you like me to check my archive of fiction of the twenty-first century?”
Ben grinned. “We did it.”
Violet didn’t smile along with Ben. “I have a research question,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Edward Vere, Ph.D.”
Another long pause.
Ben felt panic rise in him. Why would their work undo Vere? Vere was a scientist, Vere worked in a secret lab, Vere wasn’t a target, Vere’s death was only due to Claudio, and now Claudio didn’t exist.
“I have no record of Edward Vere, Ph.D.,” the computer said.
Maybe he didn’t go to grad school in this timeline, for some reason. Maybe he got the science bug in the war—
The war that never happened. The war Vere survived.
“Edward Oxford Vere, born 2040 in New Hampshire,” Ben said.
Another pause. “Edward Oxford Vere, born 2040 in Concord, New Hampshire. Died July 4, 2059 in Chicago, Illinois.”
2059? 2059 meant Vere was just a teenager, before he finished college, before he and Wilbur invented time travel together, before anything.
But it would have been during the war. He wouldn’t have been in Chicago, not if he’d been in the war, been a soldier, been elsewhere other than whatever happened in Chicago. But it couldn’t be.
“No, I think that’s the wrong one,” Ben said. His voice quavered, and he sank against the back of the sofa.
This isn’t the right sofa. This one’s the one that was in here before Eddy bought the other one at a flea market, the nicer one. The one with the Victorian scrollwork on the arms. And where is Bodhi? Why isn’t he curled up by the fireplace like he always is?
“That’s the wrong one,” Ben repeated. “Do you have another Edward Vere?”
“Edward de Vere, seventeenth Earl of Oxford, born 1550 in Essex, died 1604. Often speculated to have been the true author of the works attributed to William Shakespeare, though scholars—”
“No.”
The computer’s voice ceased. Ben slid to the floor, burying his face in his hands. Violet touched his arm, but he didn’t move.
And Eddy’s the one who told me there was a cat sleeping under the bush in the backyard. Eddy told me about Bodhi, and I took him in.
“My cat’s gone, too,” Ben muttered. He tried to explain, but his thr
oat felt tight.
Violet looked pained. “I have a research question,” she said.
“Yes, Ms. Dare.”
“Edward Vere, the one from New Hampshire. How did he die?”
“Hovercar accident. No fault cited. I have no other information, ma’am. It’s a local police report without charges. Would you like me to read his obituary? It appears in the following Sunday’s Lake County News Sun, page seventeen, column six.”
“No, thank you.”
Tears coursed down Ben’s face.
“That’s not okay,” he said. He exhaled and pressed his thumbs against his eyelids, swiping away the moisture. “That’s so not okay. The fucking war. The war we stopped? The war actually saved Eddy from dying in such a stupid way? That’s, no. No.” He looked up.
Violet pulled him close to her, resting his head on her shoulder. “No, it’s not okay,” she agreed.
“Your dad doesn’t know you.”
“That’s not okay, too, but he’s still here,” she said. “I still have him, he just…it’s different now. He’s happy, though, right? He gets to be with someone who wasn’t brave enough to be with him before.” She drew back, moving so that her eyes were level with his. “But you, oh, my God, talk about brave.”
“I couldn’t let him do it anymore,” Ben said. “He took so much from people. He was going to make it so I couldn’t walk in a goddamned building just because I’m not white? No.”
“You did it, you know,” Violet said. “You. Not your research, not your books, not your worries, and not somebody looking for adventure.”
No, not me. It’s never me. I’m not that guy.
“You did it,” Violet went on, “because it was enough. His crazy was enough. Who knows how many people you saved by just standing up to him?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ben noticed a book on the coffee table. He picked it up. A Short History of American Aeronautics. Brown cover with a sepia-toned photograph. Two tall, lanky men in tweed strode along a sidewalk together, both of them in dark bowlers, one of them with a moustache.
The clean-shaven one in front was the only one of the two looking at the camera, a fringe of blond hair visible beneath the brim of his hat. Ben opened up the front cover and found an epigraph there.
“I wish to avail myself of all that is already known and then, if possible, add my mite to help on the future worker who will attain final success,” it read. The attribution revealed it as a quote from Wilbur.
Eddy always said you were a show-off.
“This is a new world,” Ben murmured, “but we can’t ever forget.”
Violet’s grip tightened on his shoulder. “We won’t. Everybody else may have, but we won’t forget. We’re in this together.”
Epilogue:
The Dismantled Fortress
“...for hope is always born at the same time as love...” – Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
Friday, May 13, 2101, Avon, Vermont, USA
Ben closed his grade book and tossed it across the room. It landed with a soft thud on the corner of Kris’s desk. “I declare this term done.”
“Hey,” Kris protested.
“Send that to the records department to get final grades entered for me.”
“I don’t do clerical anymore,” Kris said. “Remember?” She plucked the lab coat off the back of her chair. “Technician. You promoted me.”
“I did?”
“You did.”
“It’s the brain fog, you know, from changing things.” Ben stood and pushed his shoulders backward until he felt a satisfying crackle in the middle of his spine. “God, I hate sitting for that long.”
“You used to love sitting.”
“I used to love a lot of things.”
Kris grinned. “I know what you love no-ow,” she said, the last word coming out as taunting musical notes. “You love a certain blond woman who likes to dress like it’s 1850, don’tcha?”
“Hey, in the original timeline, her fashion sense was what everybody was wearing,” Ben protested. He looked down at his frayed jeans and bleached T-shirt. “I used to dress a lot better, too.”
“Like how, velvet smoking jackets?” Kris giggled. “That’s what you had on when you got back last time.”
“That jacket was awesome,” Ben muttered. “Jesus, you’d think the lack of a war would improve aesthetics, not cause them to devolve.” A very small orange tabby kitten wandered up from the basement staircase. “There you are, Shanti.” Ben rose and plucked the kitten from the floor. “Did you get lunch?”
The front door opened. “Hey, I brought coffee.”
“Coffee? Seriously?” Ben crossed the room and greeted Violet with a quick peck on the cheek. “It used to be nothing but tea for you.”
“Yes, well.” Violet tapped the kitten on the nose. “There’s a lot of stuff I’m getting used to. Trying to go with the flow and stuff.” She handed Ben a cardboard holder with four paper coffee cups in it. “And that’s not a real kiss, mister.”
“Not now, there are children present,” Ben said.
“I’m not a child, not a secretary, not a breeder, but I’m still leaving this den of iniquity,” Kris announced. “You may grope freely, animals. Speaking of whom, let me get this baby her food.” Kris took Shanti to the kitchen. The kitten squeaked and climbed up to perch on Kris’s shoulder.
Violet giggled and pulled one of the coffees free of the holder. “You think Kris suspects what we’re up to?” she asked once the other woman left the room.
“Nah. She thinks we’re going on vacation now that my term is over.”
“And now that I don’t exist, have no job, and can just be a lazy layabout all the time?” Violet sipped her coffee. “That’s part of this whole thing I thought I’d like, but the reality is a lot more dull.”
“I know you hate not being an agent anymore.” Ben took one of the coffees out and set the rest on Kris’s desk. “But hey, when my government contract comes through, I can hire you to be part of the official historical investigation team. You’ll have a paper trail, a Social Security card, the works.”
“Sounds like nepotism,” Violet said. “Won’t they get suspicious when they find out we’re a, you know.”
“A thing? An item? A matched set of bookends? The only people on Earth who remember that this state used to belong to Great Britain not so very long ago?”
“Yes, yes, yes, and yes,” Violet replied.
“Eh, screw ’em.”
“Wow, the old you would probably not have said that.”
“The old me would also not be going on a secret mission tonight.”
“No, you’d just have sent a client and then demanded she tell you all about it, right?”
“That used to be all you were good for,” Ben said. He walked to his own desk and pulled open a drawer. “I had this made for you, by the way. Figured you might want something a little more powerful than just your fists of fury, if we were going to do some kidnapping.”
“I don’t like calling it kidnapping,” Violet said, “but I do like presents.”
“Ta da.” Ben set a small black cylinder into her hand.
“My Taser laser.” Violet beamed. “It doesn’t quite, well, it’s not…” Her voice trailed off, and she laughed. “I can’t expect it to be exact, can I?”
“Ambrose made it. I told him it was part of the grant, projecting future technology and then confirming it through travel into the future.”
“You’re the best.” Violet leaned in and kissed Ben.
“Shall we get on with the kidnapping?” he asked.
“Again, not crazy about calling it that.” Violet followed Ben downstairs to the laboratory.
“What would you call it if we’re going forty-two years in the past, tracking down a kid, and then, you know, napping him?”
“I’d call it looking up an old friend, is what I’d call it,” Violet replied. “I’d call it saving the world.”
They were downstairs now. The lab
was dark, Ambrose and Michael having gone home hours earlier. Ben flipped the switch that set the room aglow. “The world seems pretty good lately,” Ben said. “How exactly are we saving it?”
“I didn’t say we were saving the whole thing,” Violet said. She wound her arms around Ben’s neck. “But this will definitely save our little corner of it.”
“They’re waiting, back there, in their pasts,” Ben said. “Eddy, Wilbur…”
Violet nodded. “We’ll get them back where they belong,” she said. She gave him a long kiss, then pressed the retrieval device into his palm. “Ready?”
About the Author
K.W. Taylor is the author of the urban fantasy Sam Brody series, about a dragonslaying disc jockey (The Red Eye and The House on Concordia Drive, both 2014 from Alliteration Ink). She has an MFA from Seton Hill University. Taylor lives in a restored Victorian home in Ohio with her tech writer husband and—unlike every other novelist in the world—an insanely photogenic kitten. She teaches college English and Women’s Studies and blogs at kwtaylorwriter.com. The Curiosity Killers is her first science fiction novel.
Table of Contents
Part I: The Enthusiast
Part II: The Scholar
Part III: The Cleaners
Part IV: The Ripper
Part V: The Hero
