GODS OF TIME

by DG SIDNA

  It was a precursor to greater horrors to come. Fortunately, my grandmother's parents sent her away after that, perhaps prescient of this darker future on the horizon, though they could not immediately join her. It was the last time she ever saw them.

  The United Kingdom was the reluctant hero of my grandmother's tale, waiving its immigration policies only a few days following that night of terror and accepting thousands of children from German-controlled lands. Many of those children, not only my grandmother, would never see their families again. But they would always carry the memories of their loved ones in their hearts.

  As fate would have it, my grandmother was sent to a foster family in Brampton. The story went that on the summer solstice of the year 1939, only a few months following her arrival in this foreign nation, she met the future love of her life, a young boy who carried around baskets of eggs for delivery, eggs which he accidentally broke on her dress as he ran down the street careless as ever, singing his silly British songs, oblivious to the world.

  I can imagine his fright after being yelled at by a little, dark-haired girl who did not suffer fools lightly. That he was dressed down in German probably made no less an impression.

  We met in Brampton, on the summer solstice of 1939.

  I look off into the distance. I like the sun on my freckles. Great Britain seems to be peacefully slumbering, innocent to the horrors she will shortly endure. A cow rattles her bell somewhere down by the village, the playful highlight of her day no doubt.

  A shadow approaches me from behind.

  "England?" Careena scoffs. "Of all the terrible places in the forking universe, you chose England. I bloody hate England."

  My face goes red. I spring up. It will be a miracle if I don't slug this woman. "What the fuck is wrong with you!"

  Careena blows me off, which only makes me angrier. "I did you a favor, blondie."

  "A favor? Is that what you call this? They were about to send me home and you started a shootout. You're out of your damned mind. You ruined my fucking life."

  "Me? You think I ruined your life? The way I see it, luv, you were doing a pretty brilliant job of that yourself before you ever met me."

  I stop for a moment. My interview? Is that what she means? How did she even know about that? I really don't care. "You know what," I tell her. "I'm done with you. Soolin is going to be looking for us. I'm going to sit right here until she finds us."

  "I thought you were smarter than that, freckles. Don't be so daft."

  "Screw you."

  Careena looks up to the sky, like one does when they're begging gods they know don't exist for help. She turns back to me. "What do you think they do over there at the ministry? Huh? Did you not find it a little odd that they were willing to tell you whatever you wanted to know? That they didn't even ask you to keep your mouth shut once you got home? Do you really think we just give people a cup of tea and wave them off on their way?"

  I pause.

  She goes on. "You think Soolin was going to save you from the mean old lady on your roof, eh? Well, let me tell you about our honorable portreeve. She was going to send you back to Brooklyn alright. Fifty feet above the forking pavement!"

  "What? Why would she do that?"

  The old woman shakes her head, unsure of herself.

  I press. "Careena, why would she do that? What aren't you telling me?"

  "Because..." She hesitates. "Because, she was going to make everything exactly as it was. Exactly."

  I get a sick feeling in my gut. "I don't understand."

  "Freckles, on the rooftop, you fell. I don't know if you jumped or if it was the wind, but that day we met, you were supposed to fall."

  My eyes go wide. "And they all knew this?"

  "They did."

  "Give me your gun," I demand.

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm going to go shoot that bitch Soolin in the face."

  "I'd love that as much as you, but you can't blame them, not really, not even that hag. No one wanted to see this happen to you. But they've sworn an oath to protect the timeline at any cost. The consequences of doing otherwise are too dire, too unpredictable."

  I'm stunned. "How long did you know?"

  "Right from the beginning, more or less," she admits. "It's emergency protocol. If an operative needs help in the field and none of the other agents are available, the QDD chooses a local from the historical records for assistance. An ideal candidate is someone capable, alone, and not long to live. It minimizes any risk to the timeline."

  The rooftop. That breeze. I came down from the ledge just in time to save Careena. But what if it had been the other way around? "You saved me..."

  "Now don't go getting all mushy on me, freckles. And let's not get ahead of ourselves. We're not out of the proverbial woods just yet."

  "Alright," I say. "But I need more. You can't hold back on me any longer. Why are they after you? What did you do?"

  "Nothing!" she yells, a little too quickly.

  "Careena, they seem to think you did something."

  The old woman pauses in reflection. "They think I tried to save someone."

  "Someone in the past?"

  "Aye."

  "Someone you knew?"

  She's silent a moment. "Aye."

  I can see the pain in her eyes. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it."

  "There's nothing to talk about. I lost someone. It's the way the world works, ain't it? Circle of life and all that. I admit, I wouldn't hesitate to go back and change things if I could. Maybe it's that possibility that gnaws at you. When it's not an option, you just accept it and move on. But the truth is, it never was an option, not really. It happened almost twenty years ago, and like I told you, we can't jump into the blackout dates, so there's nothing to be done. We've been given the power to alter the course of human history, yet destiny has forbidden us the power to alter our own lives. Irony, I suppose."

  "Still, I don't understand. If no one can jump into those dates, why are you suspected of anything in the first place?"

  She shrugs. "You'll have to ask Soolin. All I've been told is that there was a discrepancy in the historical record. In the original timeline there had been an accident, a woman died. But afterwards someone tried to save her. Whoever it was failed, the woman still died, but the attempt was enough for Blue to flag Red. Given the unique time period of the incident, it prompted quite an investigation. Not long after that, Soolin discovered I had a relationship with the woman in question, a relationship I had never disclosed. So I had motive, and it turns out no alibi."

  "Maybe you were framed," I suggest.

  "Aye, that's my theory, though it's no easy task to hack into either Red or Blue, so I'm not sure how I could prove it. Maybe I simply angered God. Wouldn't surprise me at this point."

  "I'm sorry, Careena. She must have been very special to you, whoever she was."

  "It's not important now. I saved your arse, didn't I? If that impudent strumpet wants to hang me for temporal treason, at least now she can do it with a clear conscience."

  "For what it's worth, thank you."

  "Don't thank me yet, freckles. All I've done is make you an exile. Neither one of us can go home now. And worse, every action we take from here on out, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, becomes a liability. The more we corrupt the timeline, the easier it will be for them to find us."

  I try not to consider the ramifications of what she's telling me, that I'll never see my parents again, my friends, I'll never finish school, go to college; I'll never get married or have children, not that I've ever considered that before, but I at least liked having the option. Now even that has been taken from me. Instead, I'll be a fugitive on the run, which truthfully, is only romantic in the movies. In reality, it's terrifying. I never asked for this life, and yet I've been thrust in to it.

  And now I've been told I can never go back.

  THIRTEEN

  I have little time to consider the gravity of the situat
ion I've found myself in, before Careena reminds me that even worse troubles are ahead of us.

  "None of this matter much anyhow," she says a little too casually for my liking. "That nutter Patmos is likely to turn the universe inside out soon. And then it's so long potatoes." She's got her hands on her hips while scanning the surrounding countryside, as if looking for something.

  I collect myself. "Okay. So how do we stop him?"

  She looks at me like I've told her I've just given birth to an elephant. "Stop him? Deary, we can't stop him. Soolin has an entire ministry trying to find that turd. And she's got the most advanced technology in the universe. What have we got? Those sheep over there. That's what we've got."

  This woman sometimes. Really. Who is supposed to be the adult here?

  "We can't give up, Careena."

  "What do you want me to do? Click my heels three times? We're done, freckles. Finished. Beaten. The best we can do is live out retirement on some quiet tropical island, preferably one with whiskey sours and foot rubs."

  This can't be right. There are moments of discouragement, sure, when you and your team are ready to throw in the towel, when the odds are against you and the chances of success look grim, but that's exactly when you have to press on. You give it your all in that final stretch, because sometimes surrender cannot be an option.

  I put as much passion in my voice as I can. "We can't let the world just end. Not now, Careena, not after coming this far. I heard how everyone spoke of you. It's why I stood by you, even when every impulse I had was to turn you over to Soolin. Don't make me regret that. They said you were one of the best. I don't know what made you give up, but I need you to be that other woman, the one they talk about. She's still in there. I know she is. And I need her right now."

  My coach would be proud.

  Careena, on the other hand, just tries to wave me away with a hand, like I've let out some nasty gas. "Jesus Christ. Fine, fine. You're worse than Beckett. Good lord."

  "So we're going to do something?"

  Careena puts a finger to the tip of her nose. "Sure. What's the name of that village down there?"

  "Brampton. I think."

  "You think?"

  "Well, I mean, it's not like I've ever been here before. And somebody shot the computer, so who knows if it was working correctly."

  "Good point," she says. "We'll assume it's Brampton or some reasonable equivalent. We'll head down there."

  "For what?"

  "This is England, ain't it? There's bound to be pub down there, freckles."

  I want to strangle her. "A drink. Of course."

  Careena starts walking toward the village and calls back to me. "Hey, if I had my way, we'd drink till we drop dead, luv. But I don't want to listen to you harp on me all evening all sanctimonious like, so we'll just drink till I come up with a plan. How's that?"

  "Fine."

  We march across the fields to Brampton. Hopefully, my grandparents have already had their star-crossed, or perhaps I should say egg-crossed, encounter. Messing that up is the last thing I need right now.

  Already in the village, rising from sagging chimneys, are thin spires of black smoke from afternoon cooking fires. The town center is rustic. There's a cobblestone square surrounded by a few quaint shops and an odd clock tower. And just as Careena—wisest of the time-traveling secret agents of the distant future—has predicted, there's also a pub.

  The old lady storms in like she owns the place. "Bartender, a pint, please. And one here for my friend."

  The bartender is an elderly man with a drooping face and a handlebar mustache bleached orange by tobacco, but only in some parts.

  He seems polite enough, though I have difficulty understanding him. Half his words come out like they're strung together like wet soap.

  He says something after pouring the two pints, but I can only smile and nod. Apparently Hecate's translation program has been fooled into believing whatever the man is speaking is English, thereby taking the day off. I turn toward Careena, "Why is he asking for a squid?"

  "I believe he's asking for a quid, dear."

  "Oh, right." I ponder this a moment. "What's that?"

  Careena doesn't answer directly. Instead, she leans in close to me and whispers. "You know, it suddenly occurs to me that I haven't any... money."

  That could present a problem. Fortunately, while I may have forgotten my cellphone, I do have my money clip. I reach into my back pocket. "Excuse me, sir. But would you accept payment in United States dollars?"

  Careena slaps my hand. "Idiot! You can't give him money with a black president on the note. Don't you know what year this is?"

  "Wait, does that happen?"

  "A fancy girl like you must have something of value. Some jewelry, yeah?"

  "Why my jewelry? What about your jewelry? Those earrings." I point to her small plastic pearls.

  "No good. These earrings can hijack satellite transmissions. What have you got?"

  I shake my head. "Nothing. I took all my jewelry off before my nap. Then I went up to the roof."

  "Bollocks. I hate to say it, deary, but we may have to shoot this old geezer."

  I can't tell if she's serious. But then I remember something. Luckily no one else is in the pub, or I'm not sure I could do what I'm about to do. I undo my belt and unzip my pants, reaching down under the counter where hopefully the bartender can't see me. I cringe with discomfort. But I have what I need. I hold up a small silver bar, slightly curved, with orbs at either end.

  Careena is somewhat slack-jawed. "Where the bloody hell did that just come from?"

  "You really don't want to know."

  I turn to the old bartender. "It's fourteen karat white gold. Can we pay with this?"

  He takes a bite to test the quality of the metal, which causes me to squirm, but then he nods and refills our pints. Afterward, he takes a seat behind the bar, with a paper in hand. The threat of war looms in the headlines.

  I lean over to Careena. "I really have to ask, is your first impulse always to shoot people?"

  She just shrugs and takes a sip of ale.

  I look around. The pub is sparsely decorated with a few odd items here and there. It's comfortable, homey. Strange to think that in a few decades companies will spend buckets of money on interior decorators to achieve an aesthetic this old barman hadn't even given two thoughts about.

  "You must feel right at home," I tell Careena.

  "What makes you say that?"

  "You're British aren't you?"

  She scoffs. "What! Why would you think that?"

  "Your accent."

  "What about my accent?"

  "It sounds so... British."

  "Are you taking the piss? I haven't any such thing." She freezes in shocked realization. "My god. Has Hecate been translating me this whole time as a damned Brit?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry. I just assumed you were speaking English. I forgot about the translation thing."

  "Well, I am speaking English! I'm speaking proper 31st Century English with a sophisticated Tegan accent, I'll have you know. Without the translator, you might as well be speaking Chaucer to me. I'm going to be having words with Beckett about this. This is her doing, believe you me. As punishment. She knows how much I hate England. Makes me wonder what other linguistic schnitzel that forking tart has slipped in there."

  I think of Story. "Do you think she'll still be on our side, you know, after you went all Dirty Harry back there?"

  "Who's Dirty Harry?"

  I try again. "Annie Oakley?"

  A blank stare.

  "Rambo?"

  Still nothing.

  "Never mind." I lift my glass. "Cheers."

  "Cheers."

  We drink in silence. I wonder if this will become our routine. Two fugitives, sitting at bars across time and space, looking for the answers to problems in the bottoms of bottles. I see now how easily one could fall into it.

  After a while, Careena leaves for the toilet. I try not to think about thi
s new future that awaits me. I had so many dreams before. To go to a top school, to become something important, something people would notice. Maybe some of that desire was motivated by bits of insecurity here and there. Maybe I wanted to prove something. To whom, I don't know. None of it matters now, of course.

  And, truthfully, it all seems rather trivial in hindsight. Even if I could snap my fingers or click my heels and return home, I'm not so sure I'd continue down the same path as before, not after all I've experienced. I've seen hints now of the real Isabel Mendelssohn lurking inside me.

  And I have to say, occasionally she's a badass and I kind of like her.

  Fiddling around in my jacket pocket, I notice something. I pull it out. A wedding ring.

  What the hell?

  It takes me a long moment to realize where it came from. My chest tightens. The washroom. That vile man. Something was on the chain around his neck. This was that something. I knocked it off during our struggle, but whoever found me in the washroom must have thought it was mine and put it in my pocket so I wouldn't lose it.

  I place the ring down on the bar. Part of me wants to hurl it into the trash bin. I close my eyes and take deep breaths, hoping I can prevent the memories and emotions from overwhelming me.

  Careena returns to her seat beside me.

  Her presence helps calm me.

  "You buying us more rounds?" she asks.

  "What?"

  "That ring. You keep pulling jewelery out of only God knows where."

  "Oh, no. This belonged..." The words sticks in my throat. "It belonged to the man that attacked me."

  "And you've had that bloody thing this whole time?"

  "I guess so. I just found it in my pocket. Honestly, I want to throw it into the deepest pit I can find."

  "I understand that," she says with a touch of sympathy in her voice. "But how about we pawn it instead? Next best thing, yeah?"

  "Fine."

  "May I see it?"

  "Sure."

  She rubs it in her fingers. "A wedding ring. Platinum if we're lucky."

  "There's an inscription on the inside," I tell her. "I noticed it just before you sat down."

  She holds it to the light and reads: "To my Dearest B, I can express no kinder sign of love, than this kind kiss. Yours, Ian. Huh. Didn't take those goons as the romantic types."