GODS OF TIME

by DG SIDNA

  Thankfully, I'm not the one he's after. As quickly as he came, he leaves, continuing down the train car and into the next. I let out a sigh of relief once he's gone. I will say this, though—that kooky old lady was sure right about one thing.

  He was indeed a very unpleasant fellow.

  TWO

  Shira's apartment smells like cheap, apple-scented aerosol spray and weed. A few candles have blackened the paint where they've been left too close to the walls, creating these odd, Rorschach-esque shapes that are clearly going to cost that nutty girl part of her damage deposit. And she never even bothered to empty the trash before running off to Europe, which has led to a strange white fuzz attempting to escape the confines of the bin, obviously set on conquering the world once it's free. I've seen that movie and it doesn't end well.

  So this is college life.

  At least Shira lives alone, so I have some privacy to sulk. And I do like her Brooklyn neighborhood. It's a collection of worn row houses, neat and orderly, most with simple stoops, filled at all hours with children playing and the grandparents who watch over them. There's a real community here, a vibrancy, something that is sorely lacking in the sterile, middle-class suburbs of America where everyone is protected from the horrors of social interaction, from the terror of engaging their neighbors, by sequestering themselves inside automobiles or hiding out behind wide canyons of useless green lawns.

  And then they wonder why they're so lonely and stuck on social media all day. It puzzles the will.

  Brooklyn has its own quirks too, of course. Juxtaposed against the row houses are districts of low-rise factory buildings, some still humming along with industry, but most have been converted to other uses as the neighborhood, for better or worse, gentrifies. There's now everything from yoga studies to art galleries to boutique cafes sitting alongside family-run taquerias and remittance shops.

  Some of the factories have even been transformed into fancy loft apartments. Shira's is one of them, though you'd never know it from the simple, beat-up exterior of the building half-covered in graffiti street art. But I suppose that's part of the aesthetic. Shira says you have to pay extra for that.

  Having let myself in, I pass out on her couch, never even making it to the bed. My dreams are vague, but the shadowy specter of failure haunts them all. Phantoms chase me down school corridors and laugh as I arrive for my exams naked and late. I'm exposed as a fraud. I'm surrounded by dark pits threatening to pull me down into oblivion.

  I wake in a sweat, but I do feel better now after the nap. I go to the bathroom and brush out my long hair, dyed a sandy blonde, what my mom likes to call my Shakira-phase. What it really is, though, is a mess of odd curls which for most of my life has been entirely too big for my head. I guess I've grown into it lately. I wash my face. My nose is freckled, particularly after our long weekend on the shore. That's another thing that was always too big for me when I was little, my nose, but now I'd like to think that it gives my face meaningful character. You work with what you got.

  Sitting back on the couch, I see I have three missed calls. All from my father. I'll have to answer eventually. But not yet. Still, I don't want him calling the FBI, so I text him to let him know I'm going to hang out with friends in the city for a while. When I do finally tell him what happened, about my failure, he'll be understanding. That somehow makes it worse; he'll make me feel better in the way only a goofy, well-meaning father can. But I don't want to feel better, dammit. I don't deserve to.

  Ironically, he's the one always telling me I'm too hard on myself. But that's easy for him to say. He's a landscape architect and has designed public plazas in Manhattan, Chicago, and even Puerto Rico. He's already made his mark on the world.

  This summer program was supposed to be the first real thing I've done in my life. It was meant to be my rite of passage, my chance at adulthood, my opportunity to live away from home, to be on my own, to forge my own path and create my own destiny. I don't want to be like my friends. They're too content to sit on their laurels, which in my opinion are completely unearned. I want to be more than just another spoiled Jersey princess.

  And I've blown it. Completely blown it. The interview today was the last step in a long and difficult application process. Of course, as that idiot friend of mine Charles liked to point out, there was always the possibility that I wouldn't have been accepted. But somehow I know I would have. This burden of failure rests entirely on my shoulders.

  Needing some fresh air, I leave Shira's apartment and head up the staircase to the roof.

  Like the grey, concrete exterior of the building, the rooftop pretends to have seen better days. Being an old factory, the roof is no more than a large flat landing the size of half a city block. There are graffiti tags covering just about every inch of exposed building equipment or wall space, and long ago some industrious resident dragged a filthy couch up the stairwell and left it unceremoniously in the center of the rooftop to weather the elements, something that it's done rather poorly.

  I'd sit on it, but I'm pretty sure I'd catch an STI.

  A few beer bottles, indiscriminately scattered about, are all that are up here to keep the couch—and me—company.

  The rooftop does have one redeeming quality, however. Stretched out before me is the entirety of the Manhattan skyline, filling nearly all the western horizon. It's a city of glass and steel skyscrapers, of great stone and concrete towers, of buildings that sparkle in the afternoon light like quartz and crystal. It truly is an enchanted metropolis, one that both grants and plunders dreams, often in equal measure. My day is a testament to that.

  I walk over to the edge of the roof. I climb up on the tiny brick ledge to look down. It's a foolish thing to do, I know, but my body craves a hit of anxiety, a dose of fear, anything that can ebb the pain away from my self-inflicted psychic wounds.

  And it works. I'm five stories up. The vertigo makes my stomach turn. An ill-timed gust of wind from the lips of Mother Nature and I'd be gone. Just like in my dreams. And having blown my interview, and with little reason to be up here on this rooftop in Brooklyn, it's likely everyone would think I fell on purpose. That I jumped. This does bother me a little.

  I may be glum, morose even, but I'm certainly not suicidal.

  Still, I can't look away from the sidewalk below.

  “That there’s a quick way to dusty death, freckles.”

  I nearly jump out of my skin. It's a miracle that I don't actually fall off the side of the damned building.

  I turn and see that the crazy old woman from the subway train is standing next to the battered couch. How is that possible? Did she follow me? She's still dressed in that frumpy quilted overcoat and tacky flower-print pants.

  I climb down off the ledge. "I thought I was alone up here," I tell her with a touch of embarrassment. "How did you get in the building?"

  The woman holds up her hand. "I've a magic ring, yeah. Does tricks for me. Sometimes, anyway."

  "You know, lady, I'll say it again. You really are nuts."

  “Better to be a witty nut than a nutty wit,” is all she says.

  I wipe the brick dust from the ledge off my knees. "I don't know what that means. But really, why are you following me?"

  "Ah, yes, about that. Well, I had a bit of trouble on the metro train now that you mention it.”

  “You mean with that man that was following you?”

  The old lady nods her head. “Aye, bit of a tosspot, that one.”

  “So what happened?”

  “We had a proper go at it.”

  “Like a fistfight?”

  “Not quite," the woman says. "I blew his head off with Old Bessie.”

  “You what?”

  “Stupid forkface was quick on the draw, though.”

  At first I don't follow, but then I see the wound under her overcoat. "Oy vey! You've been shot!"

  The woman collapses, falling toward the couch, missing it by a few inches, and ending up on her bottom.

  I run
over to her.

  She huffs. "Careena J. Smith, at your service."

  "Don't talk." I pull back the long coat only to find a wound unlike anything I've ever seen before, not that I've seen a lot of gunshot wounds in my day. But this one is more like a fist-sized crater, black and charred, the edges of which glow red like rice paper burning into embers. I can't be sure, but I think it may be growing.

  “What did this?” I ask.

  She doesn't answer. First there are the whites of her eyes. Then she's gone completely.

  “Hey, crazy lady! Don’t pass out. My phone’s downstairs. I’ll be right back.”

  I turn for the stairwell door, but inexplicably there's a voice speaking from behind me—and it's not the old woman.

  “Don’t," the voice says. "You can’t make any calls.”

  I scream. I jump. I clutch my chest. Turning, I'm faced with a slim woman, black with sharp features and short, neatly cropped hair. She's not even three feet from me, but how she got up here on the roof all the sudden, I have no idea. She's only a little older than myself and dressed in what I can only describe as a navy officer's uniform, dark blue with handsome silver trim.

  "Who the hell are you?" I ask reflexively. "And how do you people keep getting on my roof?"

  The young woman has a kind but serious face. "That's not important right now. I'm a friend. We have to get Agent Smith somewhere safe."

  I point to the old lady's wound. "She needs a hospital. I have to call an ambulance."

  "They could be monitoring the hospitals."

  "Who?"

  "Whoever did this." The girl steps closer to the old lady Careena. "Can you pull back the coat? So I may see the wound?"

  I do as asked, though I'm not entirely sure if I should be trusting either of these two strangers. Careena is completely out, slumped against that disgusting rooftop couch, her breathing faint.

  "Damn," the girl whispers. "I've never seen mercenaries with this level of sophistication."

  "Mercenaries? You mean, like, someone put a hit out on this old lady?”

  The girl's expression is unironic. "Yes. And not just her. Several of our field agents. I don't know who they are yet, but we can't let them find her here."

  "She needs medical attention," I argue again.

  "Agreed, but there's nothing your hospitals will be able to do for her. Her QDD should have sent her back to us automatically. I can only assume their weapons used some sort of distortion wave that prevented the jump. Whoever attacked her knew what they were doing. And that scares me. Can you turn over her hand, so I may see her ring?"

  I hesitate a moment, but again do as asked.

  On the old lady's hand is a simple bronze ring.

  “That’s her QDD,” the girl explains.

  “She told me it was magic.”

  “Agent Smith is prone to hyperbole.”

  “You don’t say.”

  "It appears undamaged," the girl says. "We may be in luck. Likely it just needed to respin. I need you to take off the ring and put it on your finger."

  At this point, I decide I have to put my foot down. "Look, soldier girl, I don't mind helping, but you seem a lot more qualified to do all this than me. To be honest, I'm hungover and on the verge of an emotional breakdown. Can't you do this?"

  "No."

  "No? Why not?"

  "I can't touch her," the girl says matter-of-factly.

  I'm confused. "What, like she has cooties?"

  "No, I can't touch anything. I'm not actually here."

  "That's ridiculous. This is all a prank."

  "It's not a prank."

  Instinctively, I reach out. My hand passes through her without resistance. If there are moments in life that completely alter how we understand the universe, that force us to question our assumptions of reality, well, as far as I'm concerned, such a moment has just whacked me upside the head.

  "You're a ghost," I whisper.

  "No. But she will be if you don't do exactly as I say."

  I swallow hard. "Alright. What do you need?"

  "Take the ring and place it on your finger."

  I do as I'm told, first sliding off the ring before placing it on my finger. I can already tell it's going to be much too large. To be generous, the old woman didn't seem very concerned about her waistline. Yet the ring ends up fitting snuggly. "This is no ordinary ring," I realize.

  "No. Agent Smith calls her Hecate, but I find it wise not to personally identify with inanimate objects."

  "Fair enough. What now?"

  "We need to get her back to our facilities on Tegana. That's where I am now. Unfortunately, after these attacks, the entire planet has been placed on lockdown. The Defense Force is not allowing me to drop the tachyonic shields, even for a moment, to bring back Smith. I'm looking for alternatives. I just need a moment."

  I'm trying to process what I was just told. "Did you say planet? Like another planet?"

  "I'm sorry to involve you in all this, I know it's a lot to take."

  I want to question her credibility, but the truth is she's a hologram and the old lady's kidney looks like the wrong end of a Cuban cigar. Sometimes in life you just have to roll with the punches. "This is exactly the reason my mom warns me never to go to Brooklyn alone," I tell the officer lady.

  For a moment, I think I may have detected a smile.

  "My name is Story Beckett," she offers.

  "I'm Isabel."

  "Yes, I know. Isabel Aleksandra Mendelssohn, seventeen years old, of Oradell, New Jersey."

  "How the hell do you know that?"

  "A background check. I had to be sure I could trust you."

  "You might want to check it again," I tell her. "I've not been very trustworthy lately."

  "That's not what I've seen so far, Miss Mendelssohn."

  I appreciate the vote of confidence. "Please, call me Isabel."

  "Very well. But now I must warn you, Isabel. It's only going to get stranger from here. Please believe me, however, saving her is very important. Agent Smith may be our last line of defense against very dark forces to come."

  I give a forced laugh. "If this kooky lady is supposed to protect anybody from anything, I think you're screwed."

  "She'll grow on you, I promise. Alright, I found the alternative I was looking for. Take Agent Smith's hand. You'll be traveling together. Until you've had some practice with the QDD, it's best if you're in physical contact."

  I take the old woman's hand. "Now what?"

  "The QDD isn't magic, but it may seem so to you."

  "I watch a lot of sci-fi with my dad," I tell her. "Don't worry about me."

  Story nods. "Good. Then this will be easy. The ring can read your thoughts. To make it work, you simply think of the place you would like to go, and it will take you there."

  "Alright. So where do I want to go?"

  "Room 1701 aboard the NMS Stellar Pearl. It's a luxury cruise liner just a few days out from Tegana. They'll have the facilities aboard to stabilize Agent Smith until she's home to us."

  For a moment, I can't bring myself to believe what's happening. Spaceships and other worlds? Could they all really be out there? Imagine the look on my dad's face when I tell him where I spent my day. Oh, you know, dad, just another Wednesday. On a fricken starship!

  It occurs to me I'm taking everything I'm told rather calmly. This is likely just my mind choosing to ignore the actual gravity of my situation. At some point all this is going to catch up with me. Shake a can of soda and it seems fine. Until you open it. That's me right now. I'm not looking forward to the moment when my lid gets popped.

  "What about you?" I ask.

  "I'll be there when you arrive. I'll still be a projection, though. So you'll need to use the room's callbox to ring a medical team. But don't worry, I'll walk you through it. Oh, and one more thing. Reach into her pocket and take out her pistol. She'd kill me if the medics confiscated Old Bessie."

  I reach into one of the large overcoat pockets and find an
antique-looking derringer pistol, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, probably capable of only a single shot. I place it in the pocket of my own suede jacket. "Anything else?"

  "Yes. It's not enough to tell the QDD where you want to go. You'll also need to tell it when you want to go."

  "Well, now, I guess."

  Story gives me a very professional smile. "No, I mean to which year."

  "What? You're kidding, right?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "This whole time I thought you two were aliens."

  "We're from the future, Isabel."

  That does it.

  This is the last time I'm EVER fricken coming to Brooklyn.

  "Alright," I say. "So when do I want to go?"

  "That part is easy. Just tell the QDD you want to return to the present."

  I look around. "Isn't this the present?"

  "Technically, no," she explains. "You're just perceiving it that way. The cosmological present has already come and gone for you. This is what we call a retroactive dimensional plane. Think of it like a frame in a movie that's already passed. The audience is off watching the rest of the movie, but we're here in the backroom making edits. Those edits, however, will affect the outcome of the movie later. Anyway, that's all an oversimplification, and it's not important. Just think of it as the ring's present."

  "Alright, but I feel awful silly talking to a ring."

  "Don't talk, just think."

  I nod and comply.

  I close my eyes and focus on the destination this young officer from the future has given me. I imagine a ship in a present that is not my own. At first, nothing happens.

  But then there's a tinge of confirmation coming from the ring, as if it has somehow invaded my thoughts. The sensation is not unlike the dialog box on a computer, wishing to confirm if I really want to delete the selected file. Only this dialog box is inside my mind.

  Yes, I tell the ring.

  Yes, I want to go to the present.

  And like that, without the fancy swirl of effects one would expect, I, Isabel Aleksandra Mendelssohn, and the old woman, Careena J. Smith, vanish from the Brooklyn rooftop. Silence returns to the world. A few moments later, an unusually strong gust of wind passes by.