GODS OF TIME

by DG SIDNA

  "So how do you do what you do?" I ask.

  "There was a man on Tegana, named Jonathan Baker. He discovered that every particle has a bond with itself in the past. He realized he could use that bond like a road map, to find where a particular particle was at any point in history. You see, since nothing is ever created or destroyed, every particle that makes me up right now also existed in your time. But back then, of course, those particles and energies were scattered all over the place, maybe still inside stars or in different forms, who knows. But they were there. And each one has a unique fingerprint. So with his road map, a quantum-template we call it, Baker could sort of tug on them, like puppets on a string. He could literally change the past."

  "That's remarkable."

  "Yes. At first he could only affect changes on an atomic scale, like moving a single atom around. But eventually he was able to pull together entire collections of matter and energy in the past and hold them in place for a few hours. It wasn't long after that, he was able to use an entire person as a template, pulling all the same particles that make them up in the present together at some point in the past. So that's how we jump back in time. We basically hold matter and energy already existing in the past together for the duration of the jump, in a shape and form that is, for all intents and purposes, me."

  "Like a temporal golem," I remark, finding the concept odd.

  "Well, I never looked at it quite that way," she admits. "But it's all the same matter and energy that will eventually make me up anyway. So I prefer to think of it as really me. I mean, are you the same person as yesterday's you? I should think so."

  That brings up another question I wanted to ask. "Story told me there's only one present."

  "Aye, the cosmological present. When we jump back in time, we don't actually go anywhere. We're still here, but we're untethered from this dimensional membrane. We're placed in a higher dimensional plane, a sort of holding dimension, which is how the quantum-template is created, how the strings are pulled. A consequence of that is that you can't see us during the duration of the jump. Nor do we have any awareness of time passing here in the present. But time does pass. An hour in the field is more or less an hour here. A six-week mission in the past means six weeks lost here."

  "And you remember everything when you come back?"

  She nods. "The bond is a two-way street. We can tug on it from our end to make changes, but the other end also tugs back on us. Which I'm reminded of every time I come home with a bullet wound."

  "And what happens to your past self," I ask. "When you come back? You just vanish?"

  "In a way," she says. "For the duration of the jump the particles in the past are being artificially held together, but they're always fighting against it. They want to fall back into their natural tachyon wells. Which is good, because it's that process that gives the universe an arrow of time. So when we let go of them, they snap back to wherever they were before, like an elastic band."

  "Alright, but none of that explains why you couldn't intervene in the war."

  She explains. "Well, there are a few more caveats. The most important being, the closer a particle is to itself in time, the stronger the bond. So, if you imagine us as performers pulling on the strings of a puppet, then there comes a point where the strings are simply too rigid for us to pull on. There's nothing we can do to alter them."

  I try to process what she's saying. If I understand her correctly, she's saying she can't go back to the immediate past because the bonds between now and then are too strong to affect. There needs to be some distance between the jumper and the year jumped.

  "So what's that distance?" I ask. "How much time needs to pass before you can jump somewhere?"

  "The record is three hundred and twenty-four years," she tells me. "But that's only for a single electron. Safety protocol states a minimum of four hundred and thirty-two years for an adult jumper. Meaning everything between now and the last four and a half centuries is impossible to jump into directly. The physics simply don't allow it. We call that block of time the blackout dates."

  "So that's why you couldn't prevent the war," I realize.

  "Exactly. What could we have done centuries before the outbreak of the war to stop it? Nothing. At least nothing that wouldn't have had such a dire cascade of snowballing effects as to make all of history unrecognizable. Or potentially even worse. This is not a power to be toyed with lightly."

  "And what about the jumping in the here and now?" I ask. "Captain Gernsback told me that you can jump between worlds in an instant. That seems to be all that her people really want."

  The old woman sighs. "It's an unexpected part of the technology. As I told you, in order to form a template, we have to pull you off this dimensional membrane and place you in another. When we bring you back, Baker realized the laws of physics don't really give a fork where we put you. We can slap you down just about anywhere."

  "That's incredible."

  "Certainly. It was a mind-blowing discovery. I mean, we could jump home to Tegana right this instant, if they didn't have that dumb planetary force field preventing us from doing so. And look, deary, I'd love to give everyone in the universe this power, the ability to travel any distance in the blink of an eye. It could reunite families spread out across the stars, destined to never see one another again."

  "Then why don't you?"

  "Because this technology doesn't differentiate between space and time. We can't offer the world the keys to one without giving up the keys to other. As such, we must remain the guardians of both."

  I suppose I understand.

  Still, it seems unfair.

  Careena looks down at her glass in a moment of honesty. "I'd gladly cast Hecate into the fiery abyss of a star and absolve myself of all responsibility as the gatekeeper of time and space. Believe me, I'd be the first to throw away this blasted sorcery. But people are figuring out the science on their own. We do what we can to stymie them, to shut down their operations when we find them, but the black market is still growing year after year. And with that comes those who would use this witchcraft to gain power, at any cost. Not to mention, there are a fair number of blockheads out there who think this is just sport, who don't understand the consequences of their actions. Simply put, someone has to be there to stop them."

  "So you're like a cop?"

  "Something like that," she says. "But it's not as glamorous a job as you'd imagine. Most times I'm chasing down some wealthy buffoon who bought a black market vest just to hunt a dinosaur or take a selfie with Genghis Khan. We practically have a permanent agent assigned to birth-of-Jesus duty. Once we had a guy who simply wanted to attend a Nirvana concert. I didn't mind that one so much. But still, ambition should be made of sterner stuff."

  I can't say that I haven't considered what I, myself, might do with such a gift. I'd not have missed my interview for one thing.

  "Any plots ever to kill Hitler?" I ask.

  "Fewer than you'd imagine. Education is the best prevention, as our wonderful portreeve likes to say." I'm not sure what a portreeve is, but I detect some sarcasm there. She goes on. "In this day and age, even schoolchildren are taught about the explicit-negation paradox. You can go back three million years in time and punch an Australopithecus in the face, if that's your jollies, but you can't make changes in history that would explicitly negate your reason for going back in the first place. So if you killed Hitler, he'd never appear in your history books. But then you'd never know about him, so you'd never go back to kill him, which means he will exist and he will be in your history books. And around and around it goes."

  "A loop," I realize.

  "Aye. A real nasty one. Remember how I told you the universe was like a sheet of cloth? Well, a temporal loop is like raking the same spot over and over with an erasure. Eventually, it will tear a hole in the membrane of our dimension. And that would be bad."

  "How bad is bad?"

  "Bad enough our universe would collapse through the fissure. So basically,
the end of everything, past, present, and future."

  I think on this a moment. "I see. But wait, how can you break the loop? Wouldn't you be caught in the same paradox? If you stop the jumper before they do the thing that got your attention, then they never do the thing that got your attention, so you never have any reason to go back and stop them. You'd end up trapped in your own endless cycle."

  Careena winks slyly. "You really are a clever girl, freckles. Beckett was smart to bring you along. But tachyon-grounding is a topic for another day. All you need to know is that we have a few tricks up our sleeves. Right now, we have more pressing concerns."

  "Like?"

  Her face goes serious. "Like why some tosser shot me, for starters! I mean, I can't say I never have it coming. But something screwy is going on. Like, why are you here? Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you got me off that rooftop. But the whole damned reason we have seven agents is precisely for times like this, when we need forking backup."

  "And they never came."

  "No."

  "Maybe they couldn't find you."

  She shakes her head. "No. I'll admit I've made myself somewhat hard to find these last few years; there's some politics about my situation that I'd rather not get into. But if Beckett knew where I was, then the others did too. They could have come, and they didn't."

  "So what do you think?"

  "I think that my location in the field is very sensitive information. Someone told that forker where I was. Someone in the ministry. Mark my words, luv, whoever planned my attack had help from the inside. We may have to watch our backs once we arrive on Tegana."

  Great, just what I wanted to hear. "So maybe now is a good time to send me home then?" I suggest.

  "Wish I could," the old woman says, though not with as much conviction as I'd like. "Hecate's power cycle is shot. You're lucky we made it here in one piece. But on Tegana, we can have her fixed up and you can be on your way. In the meantime, I need your help. Call it a mission of sorts."

  "Of course. Anything. It would be good to have something to do, to get my mind off all this. The waiting around has been killing me, to be honest."

  She claps her hands together. "Brilliant! So listen, somewhere on this damned Mahshadi canoe must be a liquor store. Fetch me some Cawdorian whiskey, will you."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Don't be such a prude. And no matter they tell you, don't get me any of their Mahshadi piss. I'd rather choke to death on a dry tongue. Oh, and let's not mention this to the nurses, shall we? They're liable to have silly rules about this sort of thing."

  "This really doesn't seem like the time for a drink, Careena."

  She shrugs and lays back into her bed, staring up at the ceiling. "I never claimed to be a saint, luv."

  "Well, I don't have any future money. I'm sorry."

  "Charge it to the room Beckett gave us, genius."

  I give up.

  "Fine, I'll get you your stupid whiskey. But you better get me home. And soon!"

  "Believe me, freckles, if I don't get you back, they're going to hang me for temporal treason. I'm trying not to think about all the directives we've already violated just in the last hour alone. Which is exactly why I need a drink. Now get going!"

  SIX

  I leave sickbay and wander the corridors of this mighty ship. I'm hopelessly lost; the wide hallways seem to go on forever. Yet, the truth is I hope the maze never ends. I enjoy strolling these decks, passing fellow passengers on their way to and from their destinations—most making their way to the terrarium a few decks above, with its boulevard of shops, restaurants, and manicured parks. But I enjoy exploring these lower passenger decks. There are occasional surprises even here—an old-fashioned barbershop where two corridors intersect, a simple bakery, a cafe, a daycare. The future is different, but it isn't so different as I had first imagined.

  Occasionally there are tourist banners placed on poles in the corridors, advertising the most popular destinations here in what Careena had called the Ghent Mandate. I take it that a mandate is a sector of space with enough colonies near enough to one another to form a sort of community of nations, able to trade, interact, and—as I've already noticed—squabble like annoyed siblings.

  How many mandates there were in the galaxy, I don't know, and I'm not so sure it matters. One mandate is likely so far from any other that they become little more than abstract notions, curiosities discussed in magazines like Galactic Geographic and Lonely Cosmos.

  I marvel at a few of the posters displaying the colonies of the Ghent Mandate. This being a Mahshadi ship, several of the cities of New Mahshad are advertised as vacation getaways. Each has distinctive cylindrical towers, apartment buildings by the look of them, lining neatly organized, s-shaped canals, a seemingly common architectural motif on their world.

  Despite Careena's abrasive attitude toward the Mahshadi, I can't say that I'm not intrigued by their landscapes and city designs. Some of those canals cut through dense urban districts only to flow out into national parks, into rivers that weave their way through valleys with sharp limestone peaks and exotic greenery. I can only imagine rowing with my teammates in such a magical place. Indeed, there are a few kayaks in the photos.

  Good marketing, if you ask me.

  I also come across a poster for the city of Dalat on Cawdor, which I need to remember is my homeworld, at least as far as my cover story is concerned. I'm like a spy now, a secret agent on assignment, which is a little exciting, I have to admit. And apparently the Cawdorian sun is turquoise, giving the planet a bright but perpetual twilight, along with a pink and lavender horizon. Remarkable.

  Last, I find a poster for our current destination, Careena's homeworld, the Republic of Tegana. Shown here is New Harmony, the white and regal capital. The city sits on a peaceful plain, with great, snow-capped mountains far in the distance. The entire city is circular, like a porcelain plate set on a lush Mongolian steppe. It's beautiful in its simplicity.

  I continue to wander the ship's halls. To think, all in the same day I've graduated from exploring Brooklyn on my own, to exploring the furthest reaches of time and space. Not bad for a hungover Jersey girl, if I do say so myself. And while I admit I've forgotten entirely about my mission to find a liquor store, I do eventually stumble into a bar.

  It's more of lounge really, and it sits at the stern of the ship, the end of the road as it where. Like a modern ballroom, it has great curved windows staring out into the emptiness of space, offering a view of the Milky Way the likes of which I could never have imagined. Here is a band of light made of a hundred colors, from a billion twinkling stars.

  And beyond that band, looking only like stars themselves, are a billion more galaxies, each surely as beautiful, each surely with their own stories to tell, each with their own hometown girls lost in an expanse beyond comprehension. It's enough to take my breath away. To look at the edge of reality and realize that I am but a speck in space and time. It makes me wonder if I've not been sleepwalking through my life, focusing on silly things like an extra pair of shoes, a new phone, or, dare I say it, which school I'll get into next year.

  How could any of that compare to the questions those glittering lights, those foreign suns numbering more than all the grains of sand on Earth, are posing to me right now? Why are we here, they ask? Why is there something rather than nothing? Why should it be, that despite being no more than collections of boring, inanimate dust easily found on any rock anywhere, when lumped together in just the right way, when molded like clay into the shape of a person, those clumps should suddenly have deep and meaningful inner lives, conscious experience, the ability to come to tears in the presence of awe? Are we not such golems? And if we are, how then was life breathed into us?

  Maybe I need a fricken drink.

  "Welcome to Rear-Ten," the rather dapper bartender offers as I enter the lounge. "May I get you a spirit?"

  I take a seat at the bar and stiffen my back, aware that at seventeen, I may be underage here. Was
this region of space conquered by prudish Americans? Let's hope not. Or at least let's hope the fake ID Story gave me tweaked my age.

  I look up at the wall of liquors. The bottles on display are fancier than whatever cheap booze my friends manage to acquire from the corner bodega back home. I'm out of my depth here, to be honest. Though if I'm going to be Jane Bond, time-traveling super spy, I should at least try to play the part.

  "A whiskey," I say coolly. "Something Cawdorian."

  Maybe Careena has good tastes.

  I fold my hands as the strapping young man in his black suspenders turns around to take a bottle down from the wall. He sets a small glass before me, places in a large square cube of ice with silver tongs, and pours an amber shot over it with the grace of a ballerina.

  He spins the bottle around so that the label faces me. "Unearthly Child," he says. "They say it's the best on Cawdor."

  I try not to act too impressed, but I think I'm ready to marry this man. "And what do you say?" I ask.

  "I say it's the best damned whiskey in the galaxy."

  He winks; my heart melts.

  Unsure of proper fancy whiskey bar etiquette, I slam the entire shot down in one go. I mean, that's how we do it at house parties in Jersey. For a moment, my entire body goes warm. Embarrassingly, I'm sure my face has gone quite red.

  But damn, if that's not the best liquor I've ever had.

  "Another?" the bartender asks.

  "Oh, yes."

  He again pours the amber-colored sorcery. "Take this one a bit slower there, cowgirl," he tells me. "Breathe it in. Play with it. Enjoy it a little."

  I could listen to this man and his devilish dimples instruct me on the finer points of whiskey etiquette all day, but I'm an awkward flirt and one shot likely won't overcome that sad fact, so I decide to take this second one over to an open couch close to the windows.

  I like this lounge because it's spacious and wide, with couples enjoying their time in comfortable seats and sofas, while soft, old-timey French tunes play in the background. And that view.