by DG SIDNA
"Old maid," Rhoda asks during a lunch break. "Is it wise to focus so heavily on the markets?"
Careena shrugs. "I'm open to anything at this point. While you two were sleeping last night, I left half a dozen messages for Beckett on clay tablets, warning her about the attack. I buried some, I sold some, I even gave some to those religious freaks as offerings. They really took a fancy to the Latin letters. But the chances that anything I write will survive five thousand years into the future is just about impossible. This city might look impressive now, but by your all's time, it's going to be nothing but a field of rock and sand. Even the river will be gone."
I think for a moment. "What about the temples?"
They both look at me.
"What about them?" Careena asks. "You think our blockhead is the religious type?"
"No. Haven't you guys ever read the Bible?"
Again, I get only blank stares.
I explain. "In the Christian Bible, there's that story about the temples. Jesus says they've become dens of thieves and he runs out the money changers with, like, a whip or something. And it occurs to me that we're looking for a money changer, right? And then I look around and there's, like, thousands of pilgrims arriving here every day from every corner of the world, but the gods only take payment in local dollars. So... somebody's got to be changing all that money for them, right?"
Careena touches the side of her nose. "Alright, can't hurt to look."
The first temple we visit is to that of the goddess Ninlil. A great many old women fill the grounds and gardens here, some with flowers, some with tears. It's my impression they must be praying for sons lost to war, but the truth is I'll never know the complexities of these ancient sects. And that saddens me.
What I do know is that the stories and creation myths being told here today will be passed down to children. And those children will pass them down to their children and their children's children. The stories will change over the centuries, some will vanish entirely, swallowed by the currents of time. But some will endure.
True, they'll evolve. Names will be adapted to accommodate linguistic and cultural trends. Details will be altered as the beliefs of the conquered come into contact with the beliefs of the conquerors, each influencing the other. But the core of these fables will remain largely the same, for perhaps, in some small way, they contain truths universal to the human condition. Perhaps these allegories have helped humankind, generation after generation, better understand their place in a chaotic and indifferent cosmos.
Here in Isin those stories are being passed down orally. Yet I know one day, many centuries from now, they'll be penned to paper. From then onward they'll be frozen in time, taken to be infallible, unalterable; the final say of the last god standing among the many contenders of the ancient pantheon.
I wonder if something might not be lost when that happens, when the fluid river of spiritual exploration is turned to stone and paved over with the static asphalt of dogma.
I push all those thoughts aside for the time being. As I predicted, there's no shortage of money changers just outside the temple of Ninlil, lining the walkway to the first atrium, no doubt preying on those who have come only to seek answers, to seek hope.
The changers are shouting out prices and rates to the many pilgrims who have arrived today. Some shout in Sumerian. Others are yelling in Akkadian. To me, who speaks neither, it's all just noise, really.
Which is why when one particular merchant, a money changer in rather fine clothing, calls out to me, I take notice. He offers a polite smile before saying, "Sister in the red shawl, such beauty. Like a rich jewel teaching the torches themselves to burn bright. Have you come to make a tithe and receive a blessing today?"
I turn and stare. "What did you just say to me?"
This man is distinguished, perhaps in his late fifties, with salt and pepper hair, a goatee, and the wise eyes of a professor. "I meant no disrespect. The compliments are a habit. But you'll need local coinage to tithe. I can offer you excellent rates as an apology for my forwardness. Tell me, are you one of our northern sisters? From Urusalim perhaps?"
"No," I say flatly. "Actually, I'm from New Jersey."
His smile drops immediately.
Probably due to the fact that I'm already jumping across his table and grabbing him by the collar.
Because like I told Careena.
No goddamn goats.
THIRTY-ONE
For one brief moment, I honestly believed that with enough gumption and determination, enough grit, a seventeen-year-old girl could hold down a six-foot man, at least long enough for Careena or Rhoda to intervene. Tragically, I'm wrong in that calculation.
The money changer brushes me aside like I'm a pesky housefly. I end up on my ass—but not before the man takes a swipe at the bowl of coins on his table and sends them raining down on my head. A mob of pilgrims descends to catch the coins, leaving me helplessly pinned under the arms of old women and their long shawls. Remarkably, they aren't trying to pocket the coins, only rescue them for the money changer. Who—unfortunately at this point—is already dashing away.
A familiar hand reaches through the jungle of old lady arms and pulls me free. It's Rhoda. Careena is standing next to her.
"What the hell was that bloke's problem?" she asks.
I'm still trying to catch my breath. "He said I was pretty."
"Well, Jesus Christ, blondie, you didn't have to cause a scene about it. This place isn't exactly a feminist utopia, you know."
"He said it in English!" I shout.
I'm met with a blank stare.
"He's using a translator!"
I see the click in her brain. "Ah, right!" She pulls Old Bessie from her pocket and fires into the sky. Instead of the normal toy gun pop sound, this time there's a crack of thunder. The pilgrims fall back in fear and awe, giving us a line-of-sight straight to the fleeing money changer, who is jumping the wall of the temple.
Careena looks to me and Rhoda. "Well, what are you waiting for? After him!"
We pursue him out onto the streets. He causes havoc at every turn, overturning fruit carts and spilling burning pots of religious oils to the ground. Our major disadvantage is that he knows the city better than we do. He charges down alleys that lead into busy markets. He cuts across gardens. But he is our only chance home. So despite the dust in my eyes, the city sounds assaulting my senses, and the strain on my legs, I don't give up the chase.
But I lose him at a busy intersection.
"Dammit!" I curse.
Careena comes up beside me. She leans over, putting her hands on her thighs. She's out of breath and panting. How she's supposed to be some sort of elite time cop is really beyond me.
"I saw you back there, freckles," she says between huffs. "You went straight for him, no hesitation. Gave me goosebumps. I'm proud of you."
"Yeah? Well, it doesn't matter now. We've lost him."
"Nah," she says after a pant. "I saw him go in there. I just needed to catch my breath. Come on."
She points to a simple squarish building of sandstone, typical of the city though well-kept. There are intricate designs carved around the doorway. The door itself is thick and solid.
I try it. "Locked."
"Rhoda," Careena orders.
"I'm not a dog, old maid."
"Just kick in the damn door, will you, girl?"
Rhoda breaks down the door with ease and Careena storms in, Old Bessie drawn. The building appears to be a private residence, sparsely but beautifully decorated around a large open interior. There is the memorabilia of a long and well-lived life hanging on the walls and sitting in the alcoves. Colorful blankets accentuate simple furniture. A few antiques sit on end tables.
The money changer is on his knees at the far side of the room, lifting a small hidden floorboard.
"Freeze, ya'muppet," Careena yells.
From inside the hidden compartment, the man grabs a futuristic pistol and spins around to fire at us. Careena is the quic
ker of the two. Her blast blows him backwards against the wall.
Rhoda and I run to him. It's clear he's dead.
"You didn't have to kill him," I protest. "You could have just stunned him."
Careena, for once, looks remorseful. "Believe me, freckles. It's better this way."
I can't accept that. "You don't get to decide that."
"It's what he wanted."
"How do you know that?"
She points to his pistol. "See that red meter? No charges left."
I'm stunned. It wouldn't be until much later that I'd come to reflect on the encounter and understand the man's reasoning. It wasn't only that his crimes were unforgivable in the eyes of the Ministry of Temporal Affairs, that he'd find no leniency or mercy there. It's that he himself understood what he had done. He'd betrayed humanity. He'd violated his sacred covenant to time itself. And in a moment, I would learn just how deeply those transgressions went.
In the man's hidden compartment, Careena finds his jumpvest, covered in dust. She lays it out on a table.
Rhoda looks around the abode. "Old maid, what was this man after? Why would a thief take time to decorate a home? He must have lived here many months to have collected so many things." She lifts a tribal mask before it putting it back down.
"More like years," Careena tells us. "Judging from the model of his vest, I'd say he's been here at least thirty."
"Thirty years? But why?" Rhoda asks.
"Not by choice, luv. You see this circuit here, the Barclay node? Fried to hell. Probably happened on the initial jump. Black market vests were notoriously unreliable in the old days. Without the tools to fix it, assuming he'd even know how, this ended up being a one-way jump for the old chap."
"But can you fix it?" Rhoda asks.
"Don't need to. We just need the RGMs used to power it. It will take a few minutes. I have to jury-rig a few things to get Hecate going. Lucky for us, these old vests were quite inefficient. There's enough material here to power three modern vests. I'll store the leftover in Hellcate. It's not safe to leave that sort of stuff just lying around."
I take a seat on one of the couches. There's a hint of modernity to the layout of the room. Meticulous care was taken to convey the character and soul of the man that lived here. I find myself curious about him.
Why had he come to ancient Sumer? What drew him to this time and place? Had he only wanted to taste a little of the sounds and smells of the Bronze Age, to peak into the roots of his own civilization? Perhaps he wanted to steal an artifact or two for his study back in the 31st Century. He certainly struck me as a collector. A professor of antiquities, perhaps. A historian.
Was his original plan only to stay here a week? Maybe two? What happened when he realized he was shipwrecked? Surely he spent the first few months of his exile in denial. Surely in those first few years some piece of him secretly prayed for a miracle as he tinkered endlessly with the vest until his fingertips bled, aware that he lacked the knowledge to save himself, but trying, in spite of the odds, nonetheless. At some point, he must have come to accept his fate here. This home is a testament to that.
Ironically, his knowledge of science could have made him a god in this world, yet he always knew—step too far off the path of obscurity, dazzle the natives a little too much, and truer gods, the gods of time, the Tegan agents sworn to protect eternity, would arrive. And unlike the Sumerian deities worshiped in the temples of Isin, these gods could not be swayed with offerings of fruit, flowers, or coin.
Nothing that I see in this man's life suggests that he was evil. Sumer was not the type of land one would descend upon in an attempt to thwart history or grow rich. It was instead a world that a young professor, too long trapped behind mountains of books, seduced only by the love and respect of an era long since gone from memory, might strive to see just once in life, to taste and touch just once. It was a crime as innocent as it was selfish. But it was a crime.
And it did not end there.
The young Sumerian girl enters the home with a reed basket in her arms stuffed with vegetables. She is so taken by her daily routine that at first she doesn't even notice the three of us. When she does, she only stares with eyes dark and beautiful. Then she sees the historian, lifeless and limp on the floor.
Her basket falls. Vegetables roll across the floor. She runs to the historian and falls to her knees with such an outpouring of grief that I will come to be haunted for many years by the wailing of this young window. By the genuine pain of genuine love lost.
“Nam nij si iri lah! Nam nij si iri lah!” She is screaming to the heavens, but whether she is making pleas to the gods or curses against the three of us, I do not know.
Careena is working at the table and can't look away, lest she lose focus and blow half the Persian Gulf off the map. "Someone get her out of here!" she snaps.
The young window continues to wail in anguish.
Rhoda, though sensitive as I am to the young woman's plight, strikes her on the back of the head. The Sumerian girl slumps to floor. Rhoda picks her up and carries her into the bedroom, placing her down gently. Quiet returns to the house.
I stare at the widow for a long time. I could berate the historian for taking such a young wife, a girl of perhaps not even twenty, and yet, as a 31st Century man, born of an egalitarian society, who took the equality of the genders as granted, had he not afforded her more respect than her own culture would bestow upon any woman for thousands of years to come?
Resigned to his fate, to the fact that he would never again see his own family, did he not wish to seek an equal to share with his life? And perhaps in finding no equal, he had instead found an idealistic young woman and, with respect, taught her the value of her own thoughts, so that she might become the liberated soul he so longed for in a partner.
Careena would consider this to be his greatest sin of all. In the long and calamitous river of history, ideas could spread further, could wreak more havoc than any single act ever could.
What ideas, hopes, and forbidden dreams had the historian gifted to this young woman? And would she in turn pass them down to her children? And they down to their children's children? These were the painful questions Careena's profession demanded be asked.
I do not envy the old woman.
Nor do I envy the widow, not now. What awaits this poor girl when she wakes and is forced to confront alone the bitter reality that she had been shown a better future, had seen possibilities unthinkable in her own time, had felt the warmth of being valued as an equal, only to have it all ripped away, with nothing left to look forward to now but the harsh patriarchal dogmas of the Bronze Age. Could she still find happiness in that world?
I hope that she can.
"I'm finished," Careena says flatly. "It's time for us to go."
Never once before we jump does the aging time traveler look over to the young woman on the bed.
I have a feeling that she can't bring herself to do so.
FINAL INTERLUDE
Here, a little girl with ribbons in her hair.
"Look! I picked these flowers for you, Alloy."
"Thank you, Miss Tatev. I will put them in my hair, like you do."
"You don't have hair, silly! You're a robot."
"Oh, yes, the misses is correct. I must have forgotten."
"I don't believe that! My friend Nina says you look like a rusted upside down rubbish bin with arms. But father says you never forget anything."
"I suppose I don't, Miss Tatev. In fact, I even remember when your father was your age. I was a little less rusted back then. Storage will do that to a robot. Fortunately they took me back out when you were born."
"Yes! So you could be my old pear."
"I believe the term is au pair, Miss Tatev."
"Nina says you're just a clunky old farm bot."
"I don't think I like this Nina very much, Miss Tatev."
"Neither do I. She's the worst!"
Here, a chuckle between two friends, a little girl a
nd her bot.
"Is it true they made you on Old Earth?"
"What does the plate on the back of my head say?"
"It says—proudly made in the United States of Amer... Ameri-ik..."
"America."
"Yes, proudly made in the United States of America. You knew that! You just wanted to show off. What does Payoolee...EYE...EN mean?"
"That's where I was made, Miss Tatev. Paoli, Indiana."
"I'd like to go there."
"Why is that?"
"To see where they made you."
"Maybe they could give me hair."
"Hah! You'd look funny with hair. I think you're too old for hair. Old people don't have hair. How old are you anyway?"
"I'll be six hundred and forty-eight next month."
"Hurlyburly!"
"And how old are you, Miss Tatev?"
"You know that, silly! I'm five. Unless you count the time I was in mommy's belly. I was in there for ten years! So really, I'm fifteen."
"I don't think they count years that way, Miss Tatev. When they put your mommy in stasis for the flight, you didn't grow. But if you want to count the years that way, we can. However, it means you'll have to start Grade Nine next week."
"With the big kids? No way! I'm only five! I'm only five!"
"Look, here come your parents, Miss Tatev."
"I hope they're in a better mood today. Everyone has been strange lately."
"Must be grownup stuff, Miss Tatev."
"Must be, Mister Alloy."
Here, a father and mother approach with loving smiles.
"Hello, little one."
"Hello, mommy."
"No hello for me?"
"Of course! Hello, daddy!"
"That's better."
"Come now, little one, it's time to wash up before dinner."
"Do I have to wash, mommy?"
